


Les Enfants Terribles

by thusspakekate (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adaptation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 21:46:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/thusspakekate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Pansy Parkinson bets Draco Malfoy that he could never seduce Harry Potter, Draco quickly learns that games of deceit, dishonesty, and desire can have deadly consequences. Written for the 2013 round of the bottom_draco fest and adapted from the 1988 film "Dangerous Liaisons" (and its 1999 modernization, "Cruel Intentions").</p>
            </blockquote>





	Les Enfants Terribles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Icicle33 (Icicle)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icicle/gifts).



_**September 1st, 1997**_  
  
Another year, another journal. Thankfully, it is my last year at this dreadful institution. I can't imagine that they will teach me anything that I don't already know. I tried to convince Mother that this year would be an exercise in futility, that I would be better served revising for my N.E.W.T.s in the comfort of the Manor with private tutors, but the woman was unmovable.   
  
She insisted that the process of socialization one experiences at school could not be recreated in private study and that it is an “invaluable” skill I must perfect if I plan to serve as the head of the Malfoy family one day.  
  
If only she knew the truth about the unique form of socialization I get up to here, I doubt she'd be so keen to send me off.  
  
At least I have Pansy. I don't know how I would survive the drudgery of the upcoming year without her. She always has some sinfully delicious scheme up her well-tailored sleeve to keep me amused.   
  
She arrived late to Welcoming Feast tonight. When she sat beside me at the table, her face was perfectly calm, but I could tell from her rigid posture and the slight tic in her jaw that something was terribly wrong. I cast a  _Muffliato_  around us and asked what had happened.   
  
She told me that she'd just been chucked by Blaise Zabini. Pansy Parkinson, a demonic goddess who deigns to walk amongst mortal men, chucked! I could scarcely believe it. As long as I have known her, she's left a trail of broken hearts and bruised egos to rival my own. It's one of the many things I respect about her.   
  
But now she’s been thrown over. And for Looney fucking Lovegood of all people!  
  
“You don't understand,” she hissed at me. “I did  _things_  for Blaise, things I've never done for any other man.”  
  
I couldn't help but laugh at that. “Pansy, you're beautiful, rich, and have more experience than a Knockturn Alley whore,” I said consolingly. “I doubt there is  _anything_  you haven't done before.”  
  
She laid her hand atop mine and gave a tight smile. “You're sweet to say so, darling. But I'm afraid it's true.”  
  
According to her, Zabini had been an exceedingly difficult conquest that had taken her nearly all summer to achieve. He has a kink for innocence, she explained, and in order to catch him, she had to pretend that she was the one being pursued. She spent weeks batting her eyelashes and blushing prettily, giggling demurely and denying his advances. When she finally “allowed” herself to be taken, she'd actually cast a Bleeding Charm to convince him that he was her first!  
  
Impressed though I was by her dedication to the ruse, I understood her problem immediately. It goes beyond the simple indignity of being chucked. Zabini believes that he has taken something precious from her, and that gives him a certain sort of power over her. She could save her pride by revealing her deception to him, but if he went public with that information, her reputation would be forever ruined.  
  
It is simply a risk that she cannot afford; a girl in Pansy’s social position is expected to be as innocent as her blood is pure.  
  
I will be the first to admit that she has drawn the short end of the proverbial wand in this matter. By virtue of being male, I do not have to be nearly as cautious in my pursuit of pleasure. The rumors that swirl around me only add to my allure. I have to do little more than whisper false platitudes into the ears of any witch or wizard I fancy and within minutes, I'll have them on their back and begging for me.  
  
Pansy on the other hand, is a slave to secrecy and discretion. For every wizard she beds, she must concoct some grand scheme to ensure his silence. It's a double standard that Pansy and I have spent many hours discussing. Or rather, she discusses it while I nod dutifully and try to imagine what her breasts look like underneath her blouse.   
  
The pity I might feel for her is tempered by my suspicion that her true aphrodisiac is the sense of power she gets when blackmailing a former lover. She never looks more alive than when she’s scheming.   
  
I asked what her plan was, knowing that she always has one. “I’ll need your help for that,” she said. “Blaise has turned his attentions to Lovegood, but as far as I can tell, he has had no luck. I need you to get there first, Draco. I need you to ruin her for him.”   
  
She turned to me with soft cow eyes that would work on anyone who didn't know her as well as I do. “Ruin her for me.”  
  
“I'm sorry, but no,” I said. “It would be too easy.”  
  
“Please, Draco.” She took my hand again and squeezed it. “Do it as a personal favor to me.”  
  
“You know me well enough to know I don't do anything without personal gain,” I said with a snort. “Besides, you know how I feel about women, particularly virgins. They submit too easily. There's no art to it, no challenge.”  
  
Pansy sat back, pushing my hand away. “Not all women submit easily.”  
  
“You're more than just a woman, Pansy,” I said, taking her hand back. “You are an equal.”   
  
This is among the truest things I have ever said to her. She is the only person who has ever refused my advances. This, perhaps, is what I respect about her most.  
  
“Flirt,” she said with a roll of her eyes, but I could see a hint of a smile in the curve of her lips. “I'll just have to find some other man to help me,” she sighed, “one who is more devoted to my happiness than you.”  
  
“I'm sure that won’t be difficult. You have a long list of admirers who will no doubt rise to the challenge.”  
  
Just as she opened her mouth to retort, a silence fell over the hall. We turned our attention to the front of the room, where the sorting ceremony was already underway.   
  
A boy, much too tall to be a first year, was walking towards McGonagall. From my vantage, I couldn't see much beyond the tumble of inky black hair and off-the-rack robes that hung loosely from broad shoulders, but when he turned around to take a seat on the stool, I gasped in surprise.  
  
“Is that really him?”   
  
Pansy made a noise of assent beside me. “I told you I heard he was transferring here this year,” she whispered. “I can't believe its true though. The boy who lived, in the flesh.” She paused, her head tilting to the side. “And what a lovely piece of flesh it is.”  
  
I couldn't disagree with her on that score. He had dark hair and a light golden tan. His glasses were ridiculous looking, but they softened what was otherwise an incredibly masculine face. The sharp line of his jaw was set, as though he were determined to conquer the Sorting Hat in the same way he vanquished He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named sixteen years ago.   
  
Everyone in the hall was watching with bated breath as McGonagall placed the Sorting Hat on his head. “I’ll bet he comes to Slytherin,” Pansy whispered. “If he is half as powerful as people claim, there can be no other option.”   
  
I doubted it, but held my tongue.   
  
Although Potter has been  _in absentia_  for the past sixteen years, there have always been those who have had an interest in keeping an eye on him. I knew from my father that until this summer, he had been living with his Muggle relatives in South Africa. His uncle refused to leave his job just so Potter could attend Hogwarts, so the ineffectual old coot parading as our Headmaster arranged for Potter to receive his education at a magical school just outside of Capetown.   
  
According to my father's sources, he is a mediocre student with unsurprising talents in Defense Against the Dark Arts and Quidditch, but not much else. Apparently, he is obsessed with becoming an Auror and fighting for a world where we all hold hands and sing Muggle campfire songs. He’s a friend to all the undesirable sort of our world: Mudbloods, half-breeds, house-elves, squibs,  _et al._  
  
Knowing this, I was unsurprised when the hat declared him for Gryffindor. The nervous scowl across his face broke into a happy grin. He hurried towards the Gryffindor table and was immediately swallowed by a sea of red and gold.  
  
“Typical,” grumbled Pansy. She reached for her glass of pumpkin juice and took a sip. “Rumor has it that Dumbledore sent him to spend the summer with the Weasleys. No doubt they fed him exaggerated tales of Gryffindor bravery and poisoned him with lies against Slytherin.” She gave a wistful sigh. “I was going to fuck him, but now I'm not sure it's worth the trouble.”  
  
I stole a glance at her from the corner of my eye. “I've never known you to give up so easily,” I said in a measured tone. “Perhaps the situation with Zabini has thrown you off your game.”  
  
“I assure you, my game it perfectly on point,” she replied with a flip of her hair. “I just know a lost cause when I see one.”  
  
A wild idea seized hold of me. If Pansy, a woman who has charmed her way into at least two of her professors’ personal chambers (including those of the notoriously ornery Professor Snape), thought it impossible, it just might be the challenge I was looking for.  
  
“I bet I could do it,” I said.  
  
Pansy's laugh was not kind. “Good luck with that one, darling. I daresay you'd have an even harder time of it than I would.”  
  
“You doubt me?”  
  
She shrugged one shoulder, somehow managing to imbibe the crass gesture with a graceful sense of ennui. “If it were just a matter of him being the most desirable wizard in the country, I'd have no reason to doubt your success. But look at him, darling, look at who he chooses to associate with.”   
  
My eyes found the back of Potter's head. He was whispering to that oaf called Ronald Weasley, and seemed entirely too comfortable in the presence of the impoverished ginger. I decided to give Potter the benefit of the doubt and assume that his poor choice of friends was borne mostly of ignorance. He’s new to the country; he doesn’t yet realize that the Weasleys occupy the lowest possible rung of Pureblood society.   
  
“You think I'd be discouraged by a pack of Weasels?” I asked. “If anything, the idea of snatching away their only ally of any importance just sweetens the pot.”  
  
The noncommittal noise Pansy made in the back of her throat spiked my ire.   
  
“Name your terms then,” I demanded.  
  
She turned to me then, slowly, with one eyebrow raised. “You want to bet on it?” she asked, amused. I nodded and she smiled, a slow, crooked grin. “That could be interesting. On the off chance you manage to seduce the boy wonder, what would you demand of me?”  
  
I sat back and studied her. Pansy's gaze never wavered, her condescending smile never faltered. She was sizing me up, looking for weaknesses in my armor. I knew she would find none, just as I knew I would find none in hers.  
  
I smirked, knowing we were perfectly matched, and that was when I realized what I wanted.   
  
I smiled, making sure to bare my teeth, and said lowly, “You.”  
  
Her other eyebrow shot up to join its mate. “Really?” she asked with mild surprise. “Of all my galleons, of all my connections, that's what you're going with? Draco, if you had a crush on me, you really could have just said so.”  
  
She was being purposefully obtuse, but if she wanted me to spell it out for her I would. “You,” I repeated, leaning in close and dropping my voice. “For one night, anything I want, anything I demand. If I win, I'll have you. And I’ll expect your complete submission.”   
  
It was a lot to demand of a woman like Pansy, but there is no point in playing if you don't go big.  
  
The amusement slipped from her face and her jaw set, ever so slightly. “Fine,” she said, her nostrils flaring. “And if I win, I'll have you as well.” I began to interrupt, but she pressed on, “If I win, you will break your marriage contract with the youngest Greengrass daughter and marry me instead.”  
  
“Are you mad?” I hissed.  
  
Pansy turned away and flipped her dark hair over her shoulder once more. “I don't want to marry Theo,” she said stiffly. “I visited his family over the summer. They were already discussing baby names.”  
  
I didn't know what to say to that, so I kept silent.  
  
“They're going to shut me away in a tower like some tragic Victorian heroine. I'd rather die. If I must marry, and you know that I must, marrying you would at least be tolerable.”   
  
I reached for my goblet of pumpkin juice to buy myself a moment to think. Breaking the contract with the Greengrass family would be highly improper, but it wasn't as though I didn’t have a suitable replacement bride at hand. And I couldn't deny that the idea of marrying Pansy was far less repellent to me than a lifetime with the passive, doe-eyed blonde to whom I was betrothed. She understands me better than anyone and would never expect anything as bourgeois as fidelity.   
  
“All right. I'll accept your terms.”  
  
Pansy beamed. She took my proffered hand and shook it, one strong pump that bound us by honor to this insanity.  
  
I had spent the entire journey back to Hogwarts this afternoon staring out of the train window, watching passively as the changing landscape dipped and rolled, dreading the mind-numbing boredom that I was sure awaited me here. But I can say with all honesty that it's shaping up to be a banner year already.  
  
I'll either fuck the most famous wizard in all of Europe or have a new bride. Either way, it should be entertaining at the very least.  
  
  
 _ **September 17, 1997**_  
  
I swore I wouldn't do it because it was beneath me. And yet, I did it anyway. But only because Pansy can be extraordinarily unpleasant when things don't go her way. I figured that in the end, lowering myself to the seduction of Looney Lovegood would be less gruesome than listening to Pansy's relentless bitching about it.  
  
Is this what I have to look forward to if we end up married?   
  
Zabini must be really mucking about if he has had trouble wooing Looney. I didn't even have to use my usual litany of lies with her. I would have found it refreshing, if it weren't so terribly dull. A few smiles, a few “accidental” brushes in the corridors between classes, and she accepted my invitation for a stroll around the lake without hesitation.   
  
She nattered on endlessly about mad magical beasts that I am sure exist only in her mind. I feigned interest, nodded when it was appropriate, and made sure that my laughter was light enough that she wouldn't suspect that I was laughing at (and not with) her.  
  
I walked her back to the entrance of Ravenclaw tower and kissed her on the threshold. She looked surprised, as though she hadn't expected it. Her fingers traced the edge of her lips as looked up at me with those empty, saucer-like eyes and said, “Oh. That was quite nice.”  
  
I showed a commendable amount of self-restraint when I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.  
  
I let a few days pass before I approached her again, and this time we began our journey around the lake at dusk. When she opened her mouth under mine, I had to fight back the initial impulse to push her away. I swallowed my revulsion and persevered in my task, grimacing internally at each of her soft little coos.  
  
When I broke the kiss, I pressed our foreheads together, a gentle move engineered to give the impression that my affection for her was tender and wanting. She gave a throaty little laugh and said, in that strangely placid voice of hers, “Now I see why the others like it so much. Kissing is rather fun, don't you think?”  
  
I trailed my fingers down the line of her throat, stopping to rest at the hollow where I could feel her heartbeat. “I can think of other things that are even more fun than kissing,” I whispered.  
  
She never objected, never protested, just allowed me to maneuver her to the ground below. She lay in the grass, with her dirty blonde hair fanning out around her, making soft whimpering noises that never formed into proper words.  
  
It was a short, perfunctory fuck, less satisfying than a clumsy wank before bed. I do not know if Lovegood derived any real pleasure from it, nor do I care. I usually make an effort to please my lovers at the very least, but there was something particularly distasteful about this encounter that made me eager to end it quickly.   
  
Besides, if she tells anyone that I am a dreadful lover, it will no doubt be dismissed as another one of her mad ravings.  
  
Afterward, I watched as she struggled to her feet and rooted around in the grass for something she'd lost. I fingered the pair of thin cotton knickers in my pocket and tried to suppress a smile. She gave up the search eventually and muttered under her breath, “The Blibbering Humdingers must have stolen them.”  
  
Lovegood seemed surprised when I bid her adieu in the entrance hall. She must have expected that I would walk her to Ravenclaw tower again. She went on tiptoes to kiss me, but I gave her the cheek. I smiled tightly, said goodnight, and disappeared quickly down the stairs. I could feel her eyes on my back as I beat a hasty retreat to the dungeons.  
  
Pansy was in the common room when I returned. She was sitting at one of the large mahogany study tables, her dark head bent over a textbook. I pulled the balled-up knickers from my pocket and tossed them onto the book in front of her. She looked at them for a moment, then up at me.  
  
“For me?” she asked. “Oh darling, you shouldn't have.” She stole a quick glance around to make sure that we weren't being watched and shoved Lovegood's knickers into the pocket of her robes. “I'm sure these will prove useful at some point,” she said, patting her pocket happily.  
  
I settled into the seat beside her and peered at the parchment she was writing on. It was nothing exciting, just an essay for Potions.   
  
“I'm bored,” I complained with a pout. “Have you got any firewhiskey?”  
  
“I do, but you can't have any,” Pansy said as she picked up her quill. “As you can see, I'm busy.”  
  
I nudged her knee with my own under the table. “Come on, don't be such a swot.”  
  
She glared at me as though there was no greater insult than being called studious. I could think of worse things to be called: kind, chivalrous, or merciful, for example. But Pansy thinks it’s gauche to put effort into anything, and that includes schoolwork.   
  
Her book shut with a quiet clap. “All right. I don’t know why I bother, really. After this year, the only potion I’ll be expected to brew to is  _Quick Cure to Colic_.”  
  
I herded a couple of weedy looking third-years from the wingback chairs that sat in front of the fireplace while Pansy went to fetch the liquor. She returned and poured us each two fingers, conjuring a few cubes of ice for herself. She asked for details about Lovegood and I made my report, being sure to emphasize just how underwhelming and repulsive the entire experience had been.   
  
I know she was mocking me when she said how hard it must be to be me, but there is a truth behind that statement that she doesn’t quite understand.  
  
She asked if I had made any progress with Potter, and I was sadly forced to admit that I have not. It is nearly impossible to get him alone. Every time I see him, he is flanked on either side by Ronald Weasley and the insufferable, bushy-haired Mudblood that Weasley sticks it to. I know better than to so much as look at Potter when they’re around. If they caught any whiff of my interest, they’d do something to spoil it.  
  
The reminder that I have so far failed in my attempts to catch Potter’s attention soured my already dark mood. I played the part of the reasonably attentive friend while Pansy told me about the unfortunate afternoon she'd spent with Nott. I was only listening with one ear, I must admit, because I’ve heard so many similar stories from her in the past.   
  
Instead, my mind was wandering, trying to manufacture circumstances in which I could get Potter alone. It's three weeks into school and I still haven't established initial contact.   
  
I excused myself after our third round and slipped into the dormitories to brood over my Potter problem. I feel as though I may need inside assistance on this one, but my allies in Gryffindor are virtually non-existent. Of all the houses, they're the most difficult to cajole into doing your bidding.  
  
Perhaps my latent genius will spring into action tomorrow. I am clearly still too disturbed by my earlier encounter with Lovegood to think clearly.   
  
  
 ** _September 24, 1997_**  
  
I have officially established contact with Potter, although I cannot say that it was one of my finest first impressions.   
  
It seems as though the Quidditch pitch was accidentally double booked this afternoon. We arrived for practice to find the Gryffindor team already there. A number of their players were hovering a few feet above the ground, lazily passing Quaffles back and forth.   
  
In a tone of pure politeness, I demanded they vacate the pitch at once. The youngest Weasley, the female one, flew towards me, jamming her finger in my face and screeching like a banshee.  
  
I won't bother to transcribe what she said to me, although I must wonder where a young lady has learned such language. And she's a Pureblood! Or at least, the family claims they are pure-blooded. I've always suspected that one of their ancestors mated with a rodent at some point. There is no other reasonable explanation for the alarming rate at which they reproduce.   
  
Although I don't quite remember it, I must have said something to that effect, because suddenly the girl Weasel had me by the collar of my practice robes, her red face twisted in a rather unbecoming rage. A minor scuffle broke out as Goyle rushed to my defense and knocked her from her broom. Her brother launched at him while I was momentarily distracted by a swift punch from Seamus Finnegan, Gryffindor's resident leprechaun. I leaped out of the way after that, pinching my nose in attempt to stop the bleeding, and watched as the small kerfuffle escalated into an all out brawl.   
  
“Oi!” a voice rang out from above. “What the hell is going on here?”   
  
The fighting ended as quickly as it had begun, the belligerent parties unhanding each other and jumping away. The Gryffindor players became very interested in their shoes.  
  
I looked up and saw that Potter was astride his broom, descending from on high. He hovered above our heads, wearing a furious scowl and clutching a Snitch in the palm of his gloved hand. “Well?” he demanded.  
  
The male Weasley turned and pointed a shaking finger at me. “He started it!”  
  
All eyes turned to me and I dropped my hand away, revealing my blood stained face. I smiled as brightly as I could, despite the copper taste filling my mouth. “Who, me?” I asked.  
  
Potter’s fierce glare then turned on me. “Who are you then?” he asked.  
  
I can forgive a reasonably attractive man many sins, but not knowing who I am is not one of them.   
  
Before I could respond however, Weasley had already answered. “That’s Malfoy, mate. The one I was telling you about.”  
  
I felt my smile slip for a fraction of a moment before I managed to plaster it back on. “As delighted as I am to know that my reputation precedes me, I’d ask you to kindly keep my name out of your mouth,” I snapped.  
  
Weasley opened his mouth to respond, but fell silent at Potter’s quick gesture of cessation. I was impressed, despite myself, with Potter’s deft handling of his otherwise unruly housemates. That is, until he turned to me and said, “What have you got to say for yourself, Malfoy?”  
  
I didn’t like the way he said my name, full of suspicion. I realized that I had dallied too long, that Potter had already been fed a pack of slanderous lies about my fine person. Well, perhaps they’re not all lies, but I’m sure whatever Weasley has told him was taken horribly out of context. And where, I thought, was the infamous Gryffindor sense of fair-play in bad mouthing me without allowing me an equal opportunity to defend myself?   
  
A traitorous portion of my subconscious reminded me that it was the Hufflepuffs who went batty for fair-play, but I dismissed the thought outright. Hufflepuffs, Gryffindors, who cares? Generally speaking, they’re not important enough to warrant a distinction.  
  
Had this unpleasant affair happened just a few years ago, I fear I would not have been able to overcome my justified indignation, but I have since devoted a considerable amount of time learning how to better control myself and my emotions. I know how to push them down and lock them away in the far corners of my mind so that I am able present the most charming version of myself to the world. It is a survival tactic I have picked up from my father.  
  
It took only a moment before I was able to answer him calmly, to explain that it was our scheduled time on the pitch. Weasley glowered and muttered something incendiary under his breath, but Potter ignored him. Instead, he steer his broom towards the shed where the practice schedule was posted. When he returned he confirmed the scheduling error and proposed we share the pitch, practicing at opposite ends.   
  
“There’s more than enough room for both of us,” he offered.  
  
It was a perfectly civil compromise. Naturally, I had to decline.   
  
I saw an opportunity to kill two grindylows with one stone: to prove myself a reasonable man to Potter and to put the fear of Salazar in our opponents. I conceded use of the pitch to the Gryffindor team on the grounds that we had planned to work on a few of our new tactical plays. I pointed out that it wouldn’t be very sporting if they caught a glimpse of our cunning new strategies before we met on the pitch in earnest. I smiled with delight when I saw a few of the Gryffindor players exchange worried glances.   
  
Potter watched me warily, so I turned my smile up to  _Lumos Maxima._  He rolled his eyes, muttered, “Whatever,” and turned his broom away, speeding back to the other end of the pitch.  
  
It wasn't a great parting, but at least the interaction ended with minimal bloodshed.   
  
Many members of the Slytherin team were displeased with my decision and vocalized their discontent as we made our way back to the castle. I kindly reminded them that I was the captain, I made the decisions, and that if they didn’t like it they could hand in their robes at any time.   
  
Malcolm Braddock started to grumble, but after a discreet gesture from me, Crabbe thwacked him on the back of the head with his Beater’s bat. Braddock stopped his bitching after that.  
  
In the end, I say it was a wash. It certainly doesn’t help that Potter’s first impression of me involved a brawl, but I managed to keep the situation from escalating and was even able to resolve it with grace. I just hope he noticed the second part.  
  
  
 ** _September 28, 1997_**  
  
Professor Snape is a cruel man. I accidentally cut myself in potions today and he took off house points for “failure to observe safety protocols in a laboratory setting.” He took points from me! From his own house!   
  
Of course he might not have done it if he hadn’t caught me trying to squeeze a drop of my blood into Zacharias Smith’s cauldron, but that’s besides the point. I was just curious as to what would happen. As a professor, he should be rewarding my intellectual curiosity, not punishing the whole house for it. I would lodge a complaint if I knew who to take it to.  
  
When I came back to the common room this evening, Pansy was sitting on the settee with Daphne Greengrass, their heads bent together conspiratorially. I almost let them be, until I noticed something strange dangling from Pansy’s ears.  
  
“What the bloody hell are you wearing?” I asked, bewildered. “Are those radishes?”  
  
She primped and gave me a beatific smile. “Aren’t they fabulous?”  
  
“No, they aren’t. Where the hell did you get them?”  
  
Pansy made a gesture of dismissal and Greengrass stood, smiling at me solicitously as she scampered away. “My new friend gave them to me,” Pansy answered once I’d claimed Daphne's vacated spot.  
  
“You haven’t got any friends,” I pointed out. “You have lovers and you have enemies, but no friends.”  
  
Pansy’s laugh sounded the way fairy lights look: airy and lightsome. “And which would you be, Draco? My enemy or my lover?”  
  
I paused, considering this for a moment. “Why not both?”  
  
She was in obvious high-spirits because she laughed again. “You’re not even going to ask who my friend is?”   
  
Dutifully, I said, “Oh, do tell me dearest Pansy, for I am dying to know. Who is this new friend of yours?”   
  
“Luna Lovegood,” she said, letting my sarcasm slip by without comment. “She’s an interesting girl, I’ll say that. I can see why you fancied her so much.”  
  
I shot her a warning glare, but she said nothing more and only tittered at my side. “And to what nefarious end have you befriended Miss Lovegood?” I asked.   
  
“I’m offended that you would say that. Is it really so unbelievable that I would befriend a lonely and strange girl with no ulterior motive?”   
  
“Yes, that is entirely unbelievable,” I said. “Just tell me. I can see that you’re dying to.”  
  
“If you must know, I wanted to see how Blaise’s attempts to woo her were progressing,” she said. “I was very pleased to learn that she has no interest in him at all. It seems as though her heart is set on another.”  
  
I swore under my breath. This happened sometimes: women often get attached to me after I’ve taken them to bed (although, in Lovegood’s case, I hadn’t even bothered procuring a bed). It can be quite annoying.  
  
“I can see why you’d think I was talking about you,” Pansy continued, “considering how bloated your ego is these days. But rest assured, Luna is interested in someone else entirely. And she thinks you’re quite rude for not Owling her after your little tryst by the lake.”   
  
I suppose I should have felt relief at that, but something inside me was a bit offended. Perhaps Lovegood already was the little tart Pansy had hoped to make her, if she was over me and on to another bloke so soon.   
  
“Who is it?” I asked.   
  
“Neville Longbottom. Can you believe that?” Pansy said with a laugh. “That pudgy little tit!”  
  
Since the majority of my memories of Longbottom involve extraordinary bouts of incompetence or him being cowed into a terrified silence by Professor Snape, I couldn’t really believe that a girl, an actual human girl, would take a fancy to him. But then again, Luna is also a girl who believes that something called a humdinger would steal her knickers...  
  
“And what do you plan to do with this information?”  
  
“I’ve promised to help Luna bag her man, of course.”   
  
I raised an eyebrow in question. Pansy raised hers in challenge. I knew there was something she wasn’t telling me, but I wasn’t about to beg to be included in her little scheme.   
  
“I can see you don’t believe me. Not that I blame you of course, what with all the nasty little things I’ve done over the years. But Lovegood’s crush has touched a tender place in my heart. Is there anything more romantic than young love?” she asked with a wistful sigh. “It would give me deep satisfaction to help bring these tender young hearts together.”  
  
I snorted while Pansy preened. I didn’t believe her for a moment and she knew it. But if she wasn’t going to tell me what she really had planned, the conversation had reached its natural conclusion. I kissed her briefly on the forehead, bidding her goodnight and good luck.   
  
She caught me by the wrist and grinned. “I don’t need luck, Draco. I make my own.”  
  
  
 ** _October 1st, 1997_**  
  
It’s been a week since that unpleasant business over the Quidditch pitch with the Gryffindor team. Until tonight, I was worried that my shot with Potter had been completely blown. I’ve tried a number of times to catch his attention in class, but he has ignored me in favor of doting on the Weasel and his Mudblood.   
  
It was infuriating. I am not used to being treated with such casual disregard and must admit that I was a little taken aback by it. But finally the fates have smiled down upon me, and I was able to catch him alone tonight.  
  
It was fortuitous, to say the least. I wasn’t actually seeking Potter when I went to the pitch this evening. I received a missive from my father at dinner and needed to do something to quell my temper. Letters from home always put me in a mood, but this one was particularly bothersome.   
  
There are some nasty rumors circulating about the paternity of the bastard growing in the womb of one of the Patil sisters. I hadn’t even realized that the one in Ravenclaw (Pavarti, I think?) failed to return to Hogwarts this semester. My father was not so subtly trying to sniff me out. As if I’d be so careless.   
  
Either way, I was on my way down to the pitch when I noticed that someone was already in the air. I couldn’t make out who it was, but I could tell by the graceful dives and smooth turns that he was a fantastic flyer. Whoever it was had a sort of elegance in the air, a subtle command of their broom that cannot be taught. By the time I reached the pitch, the mystery flier must have noticed me, because he began a slow descent.   
  
When I realized that it was Potter, I felt my heartbeat quicken. He looked windswept. His unruly black hair was sticking out in all directions. His cheeks were pinkened from the cold air at the higher altitudes. His brow glistened with a thin layer of sweat.  
  
He touched down and dismounted his broom soundlessly. I was struck in that instant by just how devastatingly handsome the man before me was. If he really is as powerful as they say, a man that attractive could have the world at his feet.   
  
He took another slow step towards me. “Malfoy,” he greeted warily with a slight nod.  
  
The sound of my name reminded me who I was, and I quickly regained my composure. “Potter,” I said in return, flashing a canty smile. “That was some beautiful flying.”  
  
He turned and looked out at the night sky, as if he could see an impression of himself against the stars. “Yeah? You think so?” He turned back to me with a shy, sheepish smile that disarmed me. “I’m trying to get a feel for it again. I didn’t really fly much over the summer.”  
  
There was something about the sad smile he gave as he spoke that ignited my curiosity, but my instincts told me not to bother asking questions if I knew I’d get no answers.  
  
“What are you doing out here?” he asked.  
  
I indicated the broom in my hand. “Same as you, I imagine.”  
  
From his pocket, Potter produced a small practice Snitch. “Since we’re both going to be out here, fancy a friendly seeker’s game? Or are you worried about revealing some secret Slytherin strategy?”  
  
I rolled my eyes at his pathetic attempt to goad me. “There’s no strategy in seeking, just skill.” I plucked the Snitch from between his fingers. With a tap of my wand the delicate wings expanded and began to flutter. I mounted my broom and released the Snitch.   
  
We watched as it darted upwards, until it was nothing but another small dot in the starry sky.  
  
“On three,” Potter said. “One. Two-- ”  
  
I took off on two. Potter’s cry of outrage followed me as I rose into the sky, but I could hear the laughter in his voice as he yelled, “You cheat!”  
  
I spent more time showing off than I did looking for the Snitch. There was something about the effortless way that Potter handled himself in the air that made me want to be a better flyer too. We did loopy-loops and barrel rolls; we raced in sprints and dove for nothing. We flew simply for the sake of flying.  
  
It was quite by accident that I spotted the Snitch twenty minutes later, hovering near the Hufflepuff section of the stands, looking dejected and ignored. I took off, hurtling towards the lonely stretch of stands with Potter fast at my heels. Despite my head start, Potter managed to pull up beside me. He bodychecked me, though not harshly. When I turned to look at him, his face was cut across with a wide grin.   
  
“Playing dirty?” I called to him, hoping my voice would carry over the wind. A ringing laugh was his only answer.  
  
Potter was agile, deftly dodging my attempts to knock into him in return. I got in a measly shoulder check before we were too close to the stands to keep going without the risk of collision. We pulled up at the same time, changing course and flying up at an almost perfect vertical.   
  
I envy anyone who may have been watching from the distant castle; we must have been a sight, flying in perfect harmony. As we rocketed towards the stars, I was even able to forget that I was flying  _against_ Potter.   
  
Suddenly, Potter turned and began a swift dive. It took a moment for me to notice, distracted as I was by the pure joy of flying, but then I saw what he saw. The Snitch was hovering a few feet above the ground, a miniscule golden speck against the sea of dark grass. We barreled towards the ground, arms outstretched. The air stung bitterly and I could feel my eyes begin to water, but nothing could distract me from my goal.  
  
Nothing, that is, except Potter.  
  
I cast a quick glance over my shoulder, just to see where he was. He was right beside me and for a moment, our eyes locked. He smiled, a reckless, devil-may-care grin that lit up his entire face. And then he was off, flying ahead of me with an unexpected burst of speed. I struggled to catch up, but it was too late. I watched as his fingers, shorter and thicker than my own, closed around the Golden Snitch. He pulled his broom up, stopping short of the ground and let out a triumphant cry.   
  
My attention was too diverted to realize that I had yet to pull out of my dive. Quick maneuvering was the only thing that prevented a spectacular collision with the ground, and even then my landing was graceless and bumpy. My footing didn’t stick and I was forced over the front of my broom, landing in a painful sprawl across the hard ground.   
  
Potter’s face appeared above me, looking down with a mixture of amusement and concern. “All right there, Malfoy?” he asked as he tapped the Snitch with his wand and slipped it into his pocket.  
  
All I could manage was a grunt, which seemed to amuse him greatly. As mortifying as my crash landing should have been, his laughs were so good-natured that I couldn’t find it in myself to be offended. He held his hand out to me. I took it, but just as he was using his strength to pull me to my feet, I gave a harsh tug which sent him flying. He ended up on the ground next to me in a similarly disheveled heap.  
  
I had to clutch my stomach it hurt so bad – not from my fall, but from my laughter.  
  
“You prick!” Potter cried, but he was laughing too. “That bloody hurt, you sneaky arse.” I could feel him twisting next to me and then his foot collided with my shin.  
  
“You kick like a girl,” I said as I tried to return the favor. Potter rolled away and my kick went wild, swiping empty air.   
  
From his safe distance, Potter continued to laugh. Eventually his hearty laughter faded to light chuckles and then drifted off all together. We laid together on our backs, staring up at the sky in silence.   
  
I wanted to use this opportunity to my advantage, but I didn’t know what to say. Usually my name does half of my wooing for me. My quarry usually wants something from me: my fortune, my influence, or maybe just my celebrated skills as a lover.   
  
They know and respect who I am before I’ve even had to open my mouth, but Potter doesn't look at me that way other people do. There is no awe or veneration in his gaze. Either he doesn’t know what it means to be a Malfoy, or he cares very little. I knew that if I intended to seduce him, I would have to make it about him, not me.   
  
“Did you really not fly at all this summer?” I asked, hoping to break the silent tension.  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“You’re a rotten liar. There’s no way you went months without any practice.”  
  
“What can I say?” he asked with a satisfied groan as he stretched his arms above his head . “I’m just that good.”  
  
I rolled onto my side, propping myself up by the elbow. “And so modest, too,” I drawled.  
  
Potter’s turned to look at me. His eyes were obscured by the lenses of those ridiculous round glasses he wears.  
  
“Why didn’t you fly this summer?” I asked. “You were living with the Weasleys, weren’t you? That family is Quidditch mad, there must have been plenty of opportunity.”  
  
He sighed and turned his face back towards the heavens. “Just didn’t feel like it.”  
  
I knew I should have dropped it at that, but I was burning with curiosity. “But why not?”   
  
When Potter finally answered, his voice was gruff, “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors about why I came to stay with the Weasleys...”  
  
Actually, I hadn’t. Which is unusual, considering the fact that I’m the subject of half the rumors that swirl around Hogwarts, and Pansy is the inventor of the other half. “No,” I answered honestly.  
  
With a groan, Potter pushed himself into a sitting position. “Look, Malfoy, it was a bad summer,” he said with his back towards me. “I just didn’t feel like flying much. That’s all that you really need to know.”  
  
I braced myself on my elbows so I could watch as he stood. “Excuse me for asking,” I snapped, feeling simultaneously chastised and indignant at his brusque brush-off. “God forbid someone show a bit of concern.”  
  
He whirled around. The level of irritation in his voice nearly matched mine. “I didn’t ask for your concern, did I?”  
  
For a second I considered calling the whole thing off. No one, and I do mean  _no one_  speaks to me that way. When I was nine I had a governess from Switzerland who raised her voice to me once. The next day she woke to find that her working papers had been revoked and a Portkey to Zurich was lying on top of her already packed trunks.   
  
I wasn’t about to prostrate myself at Potter’s feet, especially not if he was going to be such a temperamental git about it.  
  
But then Potter sighed and ran his hand through his disheveled hair. “Look, I-- ” he said with evident frustration, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I just...I don’t like talking about it. All right?”  
  
I pulled myself to my feet and made a show of brushing the grass off my robes. “Duly noted,” I said, crisp as the fall air around us. “I’ll refrain from further inquiries in the future.”  
  
Potter gave a queer little smile. “You know, you talk really funny. Ron figures it’s because you’re a pretentious twat, but I think it suits you.”  
  
I looked up at him, quite unsure as to how I was supposed to respond to that. “Yes, well,” I said hesitantly, “Weasley carries himself with all the gravitas of a Blast-Ended Skrewt. I wouldn’t expect him to understand the importance of a refined vocabulary .”  
  
He laughed, and I found it to be a quite pleasant sound. “I probably shouldn’t laugh at that,” he admitted with a guilty grin. “Ron’s a good bloke, though.”  
  
I have many opinions about what sort of bloke Ronald Weasley is, but decided it would be prudent to keep them to myself. I nodded, hoping I didn’t look as awkward as I felt standing there on the deserted pitch with Potter, not knowing what I should be doing next.  
  
“I should get back,” Potter said. I was heartened to see he was uncomfortable. “You heading in?”  
  
I looked back to the sky. A very strong part of me wanted to stay out and fly some more, but I needed to find Pansy before she went to bed. I wanted to press her for any details she may have about Potter’s summer.   
  
And besides, I didn’t think I’d have as much fun flying alone as I had just had with him.  
  
We trudged back to the castle in a companionable silence. Rather, Potter trudged while I strolled gracefully beside him. I spent the entire time trying to formulate a smooth, charming farewell to bid him, one that would leave him with a favorable impression of me.   
  
As it turns out, I needn’t have bothered. When we reached the doors to the main entrance, Potter paused on the threshold. He looked as though he wanted to say something profound, but instead, he just blurted, “You’re all right, Malfoy.”  
  
“Thank you,” I said, slightly thrown. “You’re not a useless pile of hippogriff dung either.”   
  
Although it was dark, I would swear on my mother’s life that Potter blushed.  
  
“I liked flying with you,” Potter blustered on. “Fancy a rematch sometime this weekend?”  
  
I had already planned on proposing the same thing. It was nice that Potter was doing my job for me.  
  
I didn’t want to appear overanxious, so I took a few moments to pretend as though I considering it. He waited, watching me hopefully.   
  
“I think I may be free Saturday evening,” I said. “Same time?”  
  
And then there was that damned roguish grin again, the same one he’d given me when we were flying. “Sounds great,” he said.  
  
I expected him to immediately tear off towards the tower when we reached the entrance hall, but he stopped short once again and turned to me expectantly.  
  
“Anything else?” I asked, not even bothering to conceal my amusement. He was blushing and practically dancing in place with nerves.  
  
For a long moment, Potter just stared, a curious look on his face. Then he shook his head and the odd expression disappeared. “No, I just--” he stammered. “Just, uh, good night, Malfoy.” He turned and sprinted away.  
  
If I was grinning like the cat who’d gotten the cream, I couldn’t help it. In so many ways, I just had.   
  
  
 _ **October 2nd, 1997**_  
  
Pansy is a hateful bitch. I know she knows more about Potter than she is letting on.   
  
She wasn’t in the common room last night when I returned from the pitch, and by the time I’d finished transcribing the night’s events, I was too tired to go in search of her.   
  
I approached her for information this morning at breakfast, but she waved me off. She said that  _of course_ she had heard rumors, but they were far too fantastic to be believed. I asked to tell me what she has heard regardless, but she just smiled that little knowing smirk of hers and said, “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”  
  
While I’m pleased that she recognizes that centuries of careful breeding have ensured me an aesthetically pleasing head shape, I didn't appreciate the sheer condescension in her tone. I allow Pansy to get away with a certain amount of cheek, but she has been testing the limits of my patience recently.   
  
And even though she had just denied me a little bit of information about Potter, she had the nerve to ask for my help in getting Lovegood together with Longbottom.   
  
I saw Zabini chatting up a fifth year when I was in the common room last night, which means he must have heard that Lovegood’s virtue has been compromised. Yet, Pansy is still hellbent on messing with Lovegood, though I can't imagine why.  
  
She’s playing her cards close to the cuff on this one. Perhaps she thinks that being enigmatic will pique my interest, but it’s having the opposite effect. I couldn’t be less interested and I told her so. She just sighed and said that I would miss all the fun.  
  
I somehow doubt that. And besides, I have my own fun planned for Saturday.  
  
  
 _ **October 4th, 1997**_  
  
I apologize in advance if this entry is somewhat incoherent. I am having trouble keeping my thoughts straight at the moment. So much happened this evening, and yet I feel more unsure of where I stand with Potter than ever before.  
  
I met him on the pitch at our prearranged time. I had expected to be the first one there – since Potter is always sliding into class right before (or often after) the bell – but he was there before me, waiting patiently in his practice kit with his broom held casually at his side.   
  
We exchanged pleasant, if slightly awkward, greetings. Without further fanfare, Potter released the Snitch. I didn’t know what to make of the less than warm reception, but there was no time for rumination once we’d taken to the air.  
  
Just as we had done earlier in the week, we didn’t bother to seek at first. We spent at least thirty minutes just enjoying the feeling of flight: the freedom and the danger and the peace that it brings. I could pontificate for hours on the joys of flying in general -- or even the joys of flying with Potter in specific – but that's not what is important.  
  
What is important is what happened once the flying was done.  
  
I caught the Snitch this time. Potter swore that he didn't let me win, but there was a crinkle in the corner of his eye that led me to believe he was lying, the arrogant bastard. But if he could be gracious about it, so could I.  
  
We stood facing each other on the dark pitch, the Golden Snitch dormant and tucked away in Potter's pocket once more. He looked so badly like he wanted to say something, with one hand scratching at the back of his neck and his face screwed up in preparation for speech. But instead he let his hand fall and said, “I guess that's it then?”  
  
I had come prepared for the evening, cunning thing that I am. I summoned a silver hipflask from the far end of the pitch, where I had dropped it before greeting Potter. It sped towards me and landed in my hand with a quiet thud.  
  
“I was going to go down to the lake and celebrate my victory,” I said, waving the flask in his face. “Care to join me?”  
  
Potter looked torn. I assume that they abide the ban on alcohol up in Gryffindor Tower, but I could see that he was sorely tempted. I didn't try to pressure or cajole him; I just waited quietly for his decision. (It's an old negotiating technique my father taught me when I was young: the first to speak loses.)  
  
Eventually, he caved. He rolled his eyes and said, “Yeah, okay. A little alcohol never killed anyone.”  
  
I mounted my broom, quick to try and hide my victorious smirk from him. It might be true that a little alcohol has never killed anyone, but it can take credit for any number of poor decisions.  
  
We flew to the far side of the lake and settled on a grassy curve in bank. Potter cast a warming charm on us both while I pulled out the flask and took a sip. It was Ogden's Finest, aged in rowan casks for over forty years. It's smooth but still sits warm in your belly.   
  
I made sure that our fingers brushed when I passed it to him, but was careful to look unaware. I did, however, note a sharp intake of breath on Potter's part.  
  
He took a large swig from the flask and immediately began to cough. It was rather cute, he was trying to impress me with that overlarge gulp. His fingers deftly avoided mine as he passed the flask back, but I took it as a good sign that he was so aware of my physical presence.  
  
I took another long sip, then screwed the lid back on and set it on the ground between us. From our position, we could see the lights of the castle sparkling in the distance. The water of the lake lapped gently on the shore and the sounds of the forest at night serenaded us from behind. I spent a long moment just enjoying the peace of the quiet evening.  
  
Potter seemed to be in an equally pensive mood. When I looked over at him, he was frowning thoughtfully.  
  
“Knut for your thoughts?” I asked, wincing internally at what a knobbish thing that was to say.  
  
“What?” Potter asked, surfacing slowly from his daze. “Oh, um, nothing really. It's a nice night, a bit chilly.”  
  
With a small laugh I asked, “Do you really want to talk about the weather?”  
  
Potter squirmed. “What would you rather talk about?”  
  
He turned to look at me, so I quickly averted my gaze. I imagine I looked quite contemplative, staring wistfully across the expansive lake before us. It worked in my favor that the moon was bright; I have been told that I look quite charming in moonlight.  
  
Of course I wanted to ask about his summer. I knew there was something there, something I should know, but I didn't want to put him on the defensive just yet. I'd wait until he'd had more to drink before I followed that line of questioning.  
  
“How do you like Hogwarts so far?” I asked instead. It was a safe, benign topic, but one that was sure to loosen his tongue.  
  
I felt Potter's shrug and then heard the sound of the grass being ripped from the ground. “It's all right, I suppose,” he said. “It's a bit weird actually, coming into a place for the last year. Everyone already knows each other, and so many people seem to know me, but I don't know any of them.”  
  
I reached for the flask again. “You'd think you'd be use to the fame by now.”  
  
I took a second sip and passed it to him. He took another gulp, but didn't cough this time. “I wasn't really famous back home,” he said. “I mean, I've known the story about You-Know-Who and everything, ever since I was eleven. The headmaster came to my Aunt and Uncle's home to invite me to Protea Magical Academy, since they were ignoring the school's owls. He told me all about it then.”  
  
“You use owls in South Africa too?” I asked, surprised. I don't know that I thought they used instead. Maybe cuckoos or parrots, something more interesting and exotic than a boring old owl.  
  
“Oh yeah,” Potter said, “I've got an African Wood Owl up in the owlery that I brought with me. You'd like her, name's Collie. Anyway, yeah, I knew all about what happened with You-Know-Who, but it was never a big deal back home. Some of the swottier kids would ask me about it sometimes, because they'd read it in a book, but most people didn't really know or care. And then I come here and all of a sudden...” he trailed off and gestured vaguely towards the school.   
  
I nudged his elbow and nodded towards the flask he was still holding. He mumbled sorry, took a quick sip, and passed it back to me. I took a slower sip, buying myself time to formulate my next question. I wanted to keep him talking, loosen him up a bit more. And there was the added bonus of his rather nice speaking voice. He wasn't particularly eloquent, his speech pattern vacillated between too rushed and too slow and his vocabulary was unimpressive, but there something nice about his plain speech and muddled accent.  
  
“Do you miss it?” I asked. “South Africa and...what was your school called again?”  
  
“Protea Magical Academy. The protea is our national flower, used in a bunch of transformative potions down there,” he explained. He began to pick at the grass again and I could see that my steady gaze was making him uncomfortable. “Yeah, I miss it sometimes. I miss my friends and professors, miss my old Quidditch team the most,” he added with a laugh. “But I had to leave. Wasn't much of a choice.”  
  
He was shooting for heartiness in that last statement, but missed the mark. I was burning with curiosity, positively aching with it, but I kept my voice carefully schooled when I asked, “Oh really? Why not?”  
  
Potter snagged the flask from my hand and took another drink. “What's about you, Malfoy? What's your story? Ron makes it sound like you're the devil himself, but I think you seem all right. A bit too posh, maybe, but all right.”  
  
I straightened my back with mock indignation. “There's no such thing as too posh,” I said as I snatched the flask from him once more, right as he was about to take another sip. “I come from a long and noble line and must conduct myself in accordance with my station.”  
  
He laughed and said, “Right,” with a healthy dose of disbelief.  
  
“You're avoiding my question though,” I pointed out. Honestly, I don't know why he thought I'd fall for such an elementary diversion tactic. “Why'd you have to leave South Africa?”  
  
There was another long silence. Potter stared at the castle, his lips pursed thoughtfully. “If I tell you,” he said slowly, “do you promise not to tell anyone else?”  
  
My pulse quickened; I was so close to discovery. “Of course,” I said. “Do I seem the type who'd betray someone's confidence?”  
  
He turned to me and after a tense moment, a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Nah, I suppose you don't.”  
  
The strangest thing happened then; I felt a momentary stab of guilt. Guilt! I can't remember the last time I felt something so tedious. But there I was, sitting on this grassy knoll feeling guilty about the fact that Potter seemed to trust me, when in fact, I am  _exactly_  the type of person who would betray another's confidence. I've practically made a career out of it!   
  
It was only the first of many strange, unfamiliar emotions that night.  
  
Potter untucked his legs and stretched them out. He leaned back and braced himself on his elbows. I supposed it would be easier for him to tell the story to my back than to my face.   
  
“There was this bloke, back at school,” he began. His voice was so quiet I had to strain to hear him over the gentle chirping of the insects in the forest behind us. “His name was Jacob, he was in my year. We played Quidditch together and were partnered in Potions. We were mates, good mates, ever since our first year, but over the course of last year, something changed between us.”  
  
Potter paused. I held my breath, worried that a single wrong response would make him change his mind about telling me. I wanted to know the truth, I  _needed_  to know.  
  
“I didn't plan it,” he said. “Didn't expect it either. Just one day I looked at him, and it was like I'd never seen him before. I felt so awkward around him all of sudden, and eventually he noticed. He confronted me about it, thought I was mad at him for something. I didn't know how to tell him what I felt, because I wasn’t really sure what it was, so I kissed him instead.” Potter paused again, then let out of a little laugh. “Imagine my surprise when he kissed me back.  
  
“We were only together for about a month before we were caught. That kind of, uh,  _fraternization_ , was strictly against school rules. The headmaster had to alert our families. Jacob's parents pulled him from school the next day. My aunt and uncle have never been the most accepting of people. They made it clear that the only reason they weren't going to pull me from school was because I was no longer welcome in their home. Not that I'd ever been, really.”  
  
“So that's why you went to stay with the Weasleys this summer,” I said as the pieces fell into place. It felt strange talking to someone behind me, so I turned, angling myself towards him. “Did you know them before that?”  
  
“No,” he said. “The headmaster at Protea contacted Professor Dumbledore, who had told him that he'd like to keep tabs on me. He knew my parents, and I guess he always felt a bit responsible for me because of their deaths. When Dumbledore found out, he came down to the school and said he knew a place I could stay for the summer, since I couldn't go home. He offered me a spot at Hogwarts for my final year too, if I wanted it.”  
  
“You didn't want to go back to your old school?”  
  
“Nah.” Potter sighed and fell back, stretching his full length across the hard ground. “It wouldn't have been the same,” he said, staring up that sky. “Not without Jacob there.”  
  
It is hard to describe what I was thinking and feeling at that moment. The guilt was still there, but it had been edged away by a certain sort of sympathy. I had the strangest urge to reach out to him, to smooth the hair back from his forehead, to offer him some sort of comfort. He seemed so sad, and yet so resolved to his sadness.  
  
“Did you love him?” I heard myself ask in a whisper.  
  
There was another long pause, and I saw his head nod slightly in the dark before I heard his voice. “Yeah, I think so.”  
  
The unfamiliar feelings of guilt and sympathy were weighing heavily in my chest, so I stretched out beside him. He shifted slightly, but didn't put any extra distance between us.  
  
“What was he like?” I asked.  
  
“Jacob? A bit posh actually,” he said with a laugh, “but very kind. A madman on a broom, one of the most daring flyers I've ever seen. You two would get on, I bet.”  
  
Potter rolled onto his side and braced himself on one elbow, holding his head up with his hand so he could look at me. “What about you, Malfoy?” he asked. “You ever been in love?”  
  
Unthinkingly, I snorted. My eyes flew to his face to see if I had offended him with my gaff. It's probably not a good idea to be so dismissive about the concept of love when trying to win the affections of a hopeless romantic. Potter didn't seem to have heard my snort, because he was just watching me quietly, waiting for my answer.  
  
“No,” I said, rolling onto my side and hoisting myself up on my elbow so I could mirror his posture. “I've never had the pleasure.”  
  
“That's too bad,” he said with a faint smile. “It's pretty nice.”  
  
I studied his face, completely unsure of what to make of him. He was so simple in so many ways, but I got the impression that underneath the incomplete sentences and dirty trainers there was a complexity that I didn't yet understand.  
  
“You really think so?” I asked. “Even after what happened? It was still worth it?”  
  
“Yeah,” he said, watching me thoughtfully. “Even after all that.”  
  
I know I said that the moonlight favors me, but I am not the only one. The pastel light of the moon washed over Potter, illuminating his skin and throwing it into sharp contrast with his dark hair, so that he looked to have an otherworldly sort of ghostly beauty. There was a dark shadow where his long eyelashes fanned out across his cheeks as he lowered his gaze and, hand to Merlin, it seemed as though a moonbeam was shining directly on the pale pout of his lips.  
  
I was seized with the uncontrollable urge to kiss him. An urge that had nothing to do with the bet or my plans to seduce him. It was a natural, instinctive desire, one borne solely of the intimate moment we were sharing, the plain vulnerability and loss etched into the lines of his face. I wanted to kiss that sadness away and replace with a new found hope, a hope that only I could give to him. I wanted to see him smile and to hear his laugh, the same laugh I heard just an hour before when we racing through the air on our brooms.  
  
I wanted to see him happy again, and I wanted to be responsible for it.  
  
That was the moment when all rational thought fled me. I just  _had_  to taste him.  
  
When our lips touched, a lead weight fell in my stomach. It was like no kiss I'd ever experienced before: soft and gentle and questioning. Something in my chest seized tight and I heard myself whimper, an undignified sound that I swear I've never made before tonight. Potter's hand came up to thread through the hair at the nape of my neck, wrapping around the base of my skull so he could hold me firmly in place as our lips moved.  
  
The man is part Dementor, I swear. It felt as though he was stealing my soul from within me.   
  
I felt no urge to dominate, no urge to press further into the kiss or to change its tone from something tender to something more fierce. I was enraptured, truly, by the simple sensation of his mouth on mine, his warm breath replacing the air he'd stolen from my lungs.   
  
He pulled me closer and my fingers dug into his shoulders. I felt dizzy and disoriented, completely off balance, even though I was lying down. My heart was beating quickly, faster than a rabbit’s. I nearly swooned when he pushed his tongue inside my mouth, dragging it slowly against my own. He tasted of treacle and firewhiskey, sweetness balanced with the bitter tang of drink.  
  
It wasn't until he rolled onto his back, pulling me with him so that I was lying on top of him that I realized to what extent that the kiss had affected him. A thrill shot down my spine when I felt the firmness between his legs pressed against my thigh. I do not know if my response was simply delayed or if I was too distracted by the intensity of his kiss, but a sudden burst arousal coursed through me as I ground my hips against him.  
  
And then, as quickly as the passion had consumed us, it was over. Potter's body stiffened and then he was pushing against my shoulders, squirming beneath me in an attempt to free himself from my weight. I sat back, a concerned question on the tip of my tongue, but the frightened look on his face spoke volumes.  
  
“I'm sorry,” he said quickly, his breathless voice panting for air. “I shouldn't have – I'm sorry.”  
  
“Potter,” I said, reaching out for him. I wanted to calm him, to comfort him, to tell him that he had no need to apologize. But he darted away from my touch and began to scramble, hurriedly climbing to his feet.  
  
“I just –” he said. “Not yet. I don't know you well enough.”  
  
I should have known it wouldn't be so easy. Disappointment crashed over me.  
  
“I'm sorry,” he repeated. “It's just too fast.”   
  
He looked at me pleadingly, his eyes begging me to understand.  
  
Of course I didn't, but I couldn't say that. Instead I just nodded, avoiding his gaze. Another unfamiliar feeling was creeping upon me: rejection.  
  
“Look at me,” he said. I didn't want to, but I felt myself turning to look up at him where he stood. “I'm not saying I don't want to – I'm just...just slower, okay?”  
  
Even without the benefit of a complete thought, I understood what he was asking. I don't like to do anything slowly, but if it meant not scaring him off, I had no choice but to agree. “All right,” I nodded. “I'm sorry if I – ”  
  
“No,” he said quickly, cutting me off. “You were...you were great.” He reached down and lifted my chin. His thumb traced the line of my lower lip and I held my breath, waiting to see what he would do. He bent down and kissed me, just a soft press of his lips against mine. I could feel my spine stretch as I leaned into it, wanting more.  
  
“Another time?” he asked as he pulled away.  
  
I nodded dumbly, thinking once again that silence would be better than anything I could think to say. His returning smile -- the one I'd wanted to see earlier -- made my stomach flip.  
  
“I should head back,” he said. “Coming?”  
  
“No,” I said, feeling blindly on the ground for the forgotten flask. I found it and held it up. “I've still got celebrating to do. I kicked your arse on the pitch tonight.”  
  
He laughed. “That you did. I'll see you around then?” he asked, uncertainty and hope in his voice.  
  
My hands shook as I unscrewed the cap. “You can count on it,” I said.  
  
We shared a smile, though I can't for the life of me imagine what he was thinking. I know I was thinking glumly about the painful case of blue balls he'd saddled me with.   
  
He mounted his broom and kicked off, taking to the sky with impossible grace. I watched him disappear over the lake and turned my attention back to my drink. I drained the entire thing before I stood on shaky legs and made my way back to the castle. I didn't fly, but made the long journey on foot, turning the nights events over and over in my mind, trying to find anything I could have done differently to avoid such an unsatisfying end.  
  
The common room was deserted by the time I arrived and I had come up with no alternative courses of action that I could have taken. It seems there is nothing I can do but wait, let Potter take this at his own pace. He does not strike me as the sort who can be persuaded or manipulated easily; if I push too much, he is likely to pull away.  
  
For the first time in my long career as a Lothario, it appears that I will be the one waiting for my prey to come to me.  
  
  
 _ **October 6th, 1997**_  
  
Maybe I am slightly intrigued by whatever game Pansy is playing with Lovegood and Longbottom, if only because she’s going to incredible lengths to set it up.  
  
This morning at breakfast she received an owl. I watched as she untied the note from its leg, read it quickly, waved her wand over the parchment, and then retied it to the owl's leg. She pulled a packet of Eelyops' Premium Owl Treats from her bag, fed the beast three, and sent it on its way. I thought it strange, so I watched as the owl flew out through the open window of the Great Hall, only to swoop back inside a few moments later through the same window. It settled beside Longbottom at the Gryffindor table.  
  
“What are you up to?” I asked in a whisper.  
  
Pansy took up her fork and picked at the runny pile of eggs on her plate. “What does it look like? I'm enjoying my breakfast.”  
  
“You do realize its a crime to interfere with the Owl Post, don't you?” I caught her eye and gave a pointed stare, but she just grinned and turned back to her plate.  
  
On our way to Potions she sidled up to me. “Pathetic love notes sent within the school don't count as proper Owl Post, in case you were thinking of turning me in.”  
  
“I would never dream of it,” I said. “With you in Azkaban, I'd lose my primary source of amusement.”  
  
We reached the classroom and settled at our respective work stations. Professor Snape had not arrived yet, so I took the opportunity to grill her further. She and Millicent were sat at the table behind me.  
  
“You're sending love notes to Longbottom, now?” I turned around and asked. “A bit below your usual standards, don't you think?”  
  
Pansy rolled her eyes and leaned over the desk. “As if I would send a love note to anyone,” she said. “Lovegood and Longbottom are the ones exchanging the letters, I'm merely intercepting them and polishing up the language. It would be a tragedy to see a budding romance falter under the weight of purple prose.”  
  
“I expect the prose you add is quite blue,” I said with a waggle of my eyebrows.  
  
She shrugged, but looked quite smug.  
  
“But what do you gain from all this?” I asked. “Lovegood’'s been despoiled -- you’re welcome by the way -- and Zabini has already moved on. What else is left?”  
  
Pansy crossed her arms and sat back in her seat. She was studying me shrewdly, trying to decide if she should tell me. In the end, her desire for a co-conspirator to share in her victory outweighed any doubts she may have had about including me in her scheme. Crooking her finger, she beckoned me closer.  
  
I cast a quick glance at the door to make sure Snape was not hovering silently, waiting to dock points from anyone who wasn't sitting at attention for his dramatic entrance, replete with tortured artistry and swirling robes. There was no sign of him, so I crept from my seat and bent low so that she could whisper in my ear.  
  
“Lovegood stole something from me, something I wanted desperately. She's going to learn what it feels like to lose the one she wants to another.”  
  
I pulled back and looked at her. It was almost as if I’d never seen her before, although she looked no different than usual. She sat primly on the edge of her seat, her hands folded demurely in her lap, looking the very picture of innocence.   
  
Being chucked must have wounded her more than I had initially realized. Driving a wedge between Zabini and Lovegood hadn't been enough to sooth her smarting pride. She was going to purposefully do to Lovegood what Lovegood had unintentionally done to her. It seemed like a misfocused attempt at revenge to me, but I knew as well as she did that Zabini was untouchable. Someone had to pay and Pansy didn't care who. She was lashing out, hoping to the spread the pain of her humiliation.   
  
She was waiting expectantly for my reaction. I opened my mouth, but was thankfully saved by Snape's sibilant hiss for silence.  
  
“We’ll talk more about this later,” I promised.  
  
As I slipped back into my seat, I noticed Potter turn quickly, his attention snapping forward to where Snape was growling out the day's lesson plans. I stared at the back of Potter's head, willing him to turn and look at me.  
  
He did. When our gazes met, he turned a charming shade of pink before whirling around again, his eyes fixed forward determinedly. I smiled and began to keep a count of how many times he stole a glance in my direction throughout the lesson.  
  
By the time Snape dismissed us, my count was at seventeen.   
  
  
 ** _October 9th, 1997_**  
  
Because Potter seems intent to take our “relationship” slowly, I have made no moves to contact him. I decided to let him come to me and am happy to report that he could barely stay away for the better part of a week.  
  
He sought me out tonight after dinner and found me in the library. It's lucky for him I'm growing tired of the constant drama of the Slytherin common room, or else he might not have been able to catch me at all. It's not that I was avoiding him, per se, but remaining elusive never hurt anyone's allure.  
  
I saw him hovering by the stacks a few feet from my study table, but I pretended not to notice him. I could feel him watching me, his eyes burning holes into the back of my head. It made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.  
  
The memory of his kiss made other parts of my anatomy perk to attention as well.  
  
Finally, I could take no more of it. Without lifting my eyes from my notes, I drawled, “I know you're there, Potter.”  
  
He emerged from the shadows, standing awkwardly before me. “Hey,” he greeted lamely.  
  
I set my quill down and looked up at him. “Hey,” I repeated, though I added a bit of a shy smile.  
  
He pulled out the chair opposite me and sat, looking highly uncomfortable. I waited, curious to see what he was going to say.  
  
“Look,” he began, “I wanted to talk to you, um, about what happened.”  
  
“Oh?” I asked. “What happened?”  
  
He blushed.“On Saturday, down by the lake.”  
  
“Oh,  _that_ ,” I said, unable to contain my grin. “What about it?”  
  
I know I was making this difficult for him, but it was rather amusing to watch him squirm. He looked around the deserted library, as if he expected a nosy reporter to pop out of the stacks with a Quick Notes Quill at the ready.  
  
“Can we go somewhere else to talk?” he asked. “Somewhere more private?”  
  
My brain immediately sped through a list of things that were much better than talking that we could do if we went somewhere more private. I pushed those mental images back and decided to take pity on him. If he needed to talk, I'd let him talk. If he needed me to say kind, soothing words to comfort him, I'd say them.  
  
“Where did you have in mind?” I asked as I began to gather up my things.  
  
“The lake?”   
  
I thought on it for a moment, but I had a better idea. I knew a place that could give him the privacy he desired, but could also set the stage for the kinds of private things I had in mind, in case the evening turned in my favor.  
  
“I know someplace else,” I said, hoisting my satchel onto my shoulder.  
  
He followed me silently to an abandoned stretch of the seventh floor corridor. I know he thought I looked mad as I paced in front of an empty wall, thinking to myself  _I need a place to be alone with Harry Potter._  
  
I heard a small gasp of surprise and opened my eyes to see that a small doorway had appeared in the previously blank wall.   
  
“What is this place?” Potter asked as we stepped inside.  
  
The room had transformed itself into a cozy living area, complete with a roaring hearth and plush furniture. I smirked to myself when I noticed the bed in the corner. How well this room knows me.  
  
“It's called the Room of Requirement,” I explained as I set my bag on the ground next to the settee and took a seat. I patted the spot next to me in invitation. “I'm not sure if the other houses know about it; I've never seen anyone else lurking about in the corridors, but everyone in Slytherin uses it when we need a bit of time away from it all.”  
  
“So it's just, what? A hidden bedroom?” Potter asked as his eyes slid to the bed in the corner.  
  
I didn't want to admit the reason that the bed was there was entirely my doing. “Sort of,” I said, and left it at that.  
  
He joined me on the settee, but sat further away than I had hoped. He didn't say anything for a long moment, so I decided that some gentle prodding wouldn't be remiss.   
  
“You wanted to talk about something?” I asked.  
  
Potter's hands wrung in his lap and for a moment. I was convinced he was about to give me the brush off. Before I could do anything to head him off, he opened his mouth and began to speak.  
  
“I'm not sorry about what happened,” he said. “I liked it, a lot in fact, and I wouldn't be opposed to it happening again. But the thing is...” he faltered. “The thing is, we hardly know each other. I've heard a lot about you, Malfoy, and very little of it is good. I don't want to believe it, and I actually don't believe most of it, but...” he trailed off with a grimace and looked up at me.  
  
He wanted me to tell him that all of the nasty little things he'd heard about me, that all of the evil rumors that Weasley had whispered in his ear, were lies. I could have done it; I could have convinced him quite easily of it, in fact. This wasn't the first time someone had looked at me like that, hoping against hope that I was a better man than they'd been told.  
  
I could have lied to Potter, but something held me back. It was that same feeling of guilt I'd experienced by the lake. It settled strangely in my stomach and twisted painfully.   
  
I am a man who was raised to follow his instincts; something was telling me to be honest with Potter, to take the road unknown. But just because I was resolved not to lie doesn't mean I was going to make Potter my confessor. A man is allowed his discretion.  
  
“I don't know what you've heard,” I said carefully, “so I can’t confirm or deny anything. But there’s probably a bit of truth hidden somewhere between the wild speculation and the outright lies. I've never claimed to be a saint.”  
  
“You don't have to be a saint to be a good person.”  
  
I let a slow, languid smile stretch across my face. “I never claimed to be one of those either.”  
  
Potter was not as charmed by this as I thought he might be. He frowned again and turned away. “I try to be,” he said, staring at the folded hands in his lap. “A good person that is. And I want to surround myself with good people too.”  
  
My heart began to pound in my chest. I may have miscalculated this one. Slowly, I reached for his hand. He jumped slightly at the contact but didn't pull away.  
  
“Then show me,” I whispered, turning his hand over so I could trace his palm with my thumb. “Show me what it means to be good.”  
  
Potter looked at me then, startlement in his bright green eyes. “I don't know how,” he said, licking his lips. “You either are or you aren't. You can't teach someone how to be good.”  
  
It was my turn to frown, genuinely perplexed. That was not what I've been told. Weren't these noble types always going on about redemption and lessons learned? Wasn't Potter even going to try and reform me?  
  
“So you think I'm beyond hope,” I said, pushing his hand away. I'm not sure why, but Potter's words put me on the defensive. “You hear a few things about me from Ronald fucking Weasley and suddenly I'm lower than kneazle dung in your eyes?”  
  
“It was more than a few,” Potter muttered under his breath.  
  
He sighed and flexed his fingers, before tucking his hands back together in his lap. “Look, of course I don't think you're beyond hope. I wouldn't be here if I thought that.”  
  
“Then why are you here? What is it that you think of me?” I demanded, feeling my temper rise. How dare he think so little of me, just as I was beginning to think so fondly of him.  
  
His shoulders squared. “I don't think you're a bad person,” he said resolutely. It was as if he was trying to convince himself of it as he said it. “I don't know what's true and what's just gossip, but I think you deserve the benefit of the doubt. I think that underneath the swaggering and the bravado, you are a good person. Despite what everyone else thinks, despite what  _you_  think.”  
  
What perfectly trite sentimentalism. Under normal circumstances I would have sneered at the very thought. But as I have already demonstrated, these were not normal circumstances. For some reason I was not myself, not thinking or reacting the way I normally would have. Instead of sneering, I just stared at him, thunderstruck. A moment before I had been angry that he thought me a bad person, and now I was insulted that he thought me good.  
  
“You don't know me,” I snapped, defenses on high. “You don't know anything about me.”  
  
Potter, with his obnoxiously square jaw held tight, nodded. “You're right, I really don't.” He took my hand, threading our fingers together so that his dry palm pressed against my sweaty one. “But I think that I'd like to.”  
  
My voice was shaking when I finally found it, “I don't know what you want from me.”  
  
A chill shot down my spine when I felt Potter's thumbnail drag across the thin skin of my wrist. “I want to get to know you, Draco,” he said. “The real you.”  
  
I stared at our enjoined hands as though I had never seen anything so ridiculous as hands before in my life. “There is no real me,” I said, confused. “There is only this me; this is who I am.”  
  
Potter's other hand came up and traced the line of my jaw. I raised my eyes to meet his and almost gasped at the determination I found there. “No,” he said, with such gentle conviction that I would have believed anything he said in that moment. “There's more to you than what I've heard,” he said. “I can sense it.”  
  
When Potter leaned forward and kissed me, I wrenched my hands free of his so that I could dig my fingers into his shoulders as my whole world tilted. He had one hand on my cheek, the other on the back of my head. I could do nothing but open my mouth and accept the gentle slide of his tongue across my own.  
  
There's no way to describe the kiss that wouldn't make me sound like a mawkish tit. Suffice it to say, when Potter began to pull away, I tried to follow after him.  
  
“It's almost curfew,” he said, his voice thick and raspy. “We should head back.”  
  
He stood and held his hand out to me, but I shook my head. I'd like to say that the embarrassing evidence of my arousal was the reason I declined (because honestly, how hard I was at the time was completely disproportionate to the relatively short time we'd spent snogging), but if I were being honest, I would have to admit that I wasn't entirely sure my legs would support my weight had I tried to stand.  
  
Unbelievable, I know, but true. Potter had actually made me weak in the knees.  
  
“We'll continue this later, yeah?” he asked, managing to sound both hopeful and certain at the same time.  
  
“Yeah,” I agreed with a nod, trying desperately to play it cool, “later.”  
  
I picked up my satchel from the floor beside me and began to rummage through it, not looking for anything in particular but needing a distraction. I was seriously considering pouncing Potter, throwing him onto the ground, and just rutting against him until I got off in my fucking trousers.   
  
I've never felt the need for someone with the same urgency as I do Potter. And ironically, there's never been anyone who I've had to take things so slowly with.  
  
Potter lingered awkwardly for a moment, but when it became clear that I was more interested in the contents of my bag than a lengthy goodbye, he mumbled “Goodnight,” and headed for the door.  
  
I am supposed to be the one who walks away while the other person sits in a confused haze, wondering what force of nature has just uprooted their world. But it's just not like that with Potter, nothing is how it should be with him. This was the second time that he had left me reeling.   
  
When I finally made it back to the dungeons, Pansy was loitering by the fire. She had a letter in her hands, presumably one that she’d “intercepted.” She called to me as I crossed the common room, but I pretended not to hear her. My head was not in the right place to listen to her cackle gleefully over the romantic misfortunes of others.  
  
I fear that I may be one of the unfortunate ones.  
  
  
 ** _October 12, 1997_**  
  
Maybe I have been avoiding Potter this time around.   
  
I didn't have any lessons with him on Friday and was able to spend most of the weekend in Slytherin. The few glimpses I got of him in the corridors or at breakfast were fleeting. He'd smile at me cautiously, and I'd quickly turn my head, careful to hide the blush I couldn't control.  
  
It's as though we're doing a dance that I don't know the steps to.  
  
My luck ran out this evening when I was cornered on my way back from dinner by Neville fucking Longbottom of all people. Of all the adjectives I would have used to describe him, stealthy wouldn't have been one of them. But there he was, waiting for me just outside the Great Hall.  
  
“Malfoy. Can I have a word?”  
  
I had no clue what Longbottom could have possibly wanted to talk to me about. My first instinct was to decline, but then I saw Potter just a few feet down the corridor, chatting with the Weasel and a few Hufflepuffs whose names I can't be bothered to recall. It probably wouldn't be good for me to be caught being rude to one of Potter’s housemates, so I nodded curtly and let him lead me to a quiet corner.  
  
“You're friends with Pansy, right?” he asked. I could tell he was quite uncomfortable asking me this, and the feeling was mutual. I really didn't want to get caught up in whatever mess Pansy was trying to make.  
  
“You could say that,” I said cautiously. “Why?”  
  
Longbottom was staring at his shoes. “Do you know if she's seeing anyone? I'm just, you know, curious.”  
  
“Not that I'm aware of. But honestly, Longbottom, you don't want to get mixed up with her.”  
  
His head shot up, looking surprised. “Why not?” he asked defensively.  
  
“She'll eat you alive.”  
  
Longbottom's chin raised in defiance, and I struggled not to roll my eyes. Gryffindors could be so bloody stubborn. He'd probably feel the need to redouble his efforts just because he'd been advised not to, regardless of the fact that it was perfectly sound advice.  
  
“I think I can handle myself,” he said. .  
  
“Whatever,” I shrugged, entirely bored with this conversation. “It's your funeral then.”  
  
I sidestepped him, eager to get away. My attention was grabbed by a kerfuffle next to the closed doors of the Great Hall. A large group of students were huddled in a tight circle, some talking excitedly while others shouted. I saw a pair of feet rising into the air over the heads of the crowded students. There was more screaming and shouts of derisive laughter.  
  
Levicorpus. Oh, how fun.  
  
Feeling utterly exhausted, I almost turned away and let them be, until I saw through a gap in the circle of bodies that the student wielding the charm was a third year Slytherin that I recognized from the common room.  
  
“Daniels,” I snapped as I pushed towards the crowd, my exhaustion momentarily overcome by irritation. The little idiot was going to lose points for the entire house if the doors to the Great Hall opened and one of the many professors inside noticed the commotion. “Stop it right now.”  
  
“Malfoy!” he yelled in surprise. His concentration wavered and the Ravenclaw boy that was suspended in midair almost hit his head on the hard stones of the floor. Daniels flicked his wand and the strength of the spell renewed, the Ravenclaw rising a few more feet into the air. “What's the problem?” he asked lazily. “I'm just having a bit of fun.”  
  
“Put him down,” I demanded. I outranked him both in seniority and social standing. If knew what was best for him, he'd heed my instruction. The social hierarchy of Slytherin House is a precarious beast, but one that must always be respected.  
  
“But he's a tosser,” Daniels whined. “And a Mudblood to boot. He was bragging that Ravenclaws make better marks than Slytherins. Just thought I'd show him that some people will always be his superior.”  
  
“Daniels,” I said lowly, my voice cool, but threatening. “ _Now._ ”  
  
The impertinent child rolled his eyes, but acquiesced. With a sigh and another deft flick of his wrist, he canceled the spell and the nameless Ravenclaw crashed to the ground below. I heard Daniels grumble under his breath as he stormed away, but I didn't engage him further.   
  
Let him have his strop, I didn't care.  
  
Now that the show was over, the group of gathered students quickly dispersed, no doubt to go spread the tale of what had happened all across the castle. The Ravenclaw boy sat alone on the floor, rubbing his sore head.  
  
Approaching slowly, I asked, “Are you all right?”  
  
He looked up at me with a mixture of gratitude and wariness. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “I think so.”  
  
“What's your name?”   
  
He told me, although I can't recall what he said exactly. Robins or Roosevelt or something like that.  
  
“If he gives you anymore shit, you'll tell me,” I said, making it more of a command than a question. I didn't want the situation to escalate just because Daniels was in a snit.  
  
Robins-or-Roosevelt looked at me with surprise for a moment, then he stood up and brushed himself off. He gave me a tight nod.  
  
I returned the gesture and turned around, ready to return to the my dorms. I wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed with a book and call it an early night.  
  
Unfortunately, I ended up barreling straight into a solid wall of flesh. A solid wall of flesh that stepped back and revealed itself to be Potter, smiling bemusedly and rubbing his chest where we'd collided.  
  
“I saw what happened. That was decent of you.”  
  
“Yes, well, I didn't do it for your benefit,” I snapped.   
  
Why were the fates conspiring against me? All I wanted the sweet sanctuary of my dorm room. I couldn’t deal with Potter just then. I needed to be in a better mental space before I could attempt to interact with him.  
  
Potter wore another queer little smile. “I know you didn't.”  
  
I didn't like the way he was looking at me, so I scowled and pushed past him. “Goodnight, Potter,” I called out over my shoulder.  
  
“Hey Malfoy, hang on a second!” he yelled, and stupidly, my feet listened, stopping short.  
  
Potter jogged to my side. “I was wondering if you'd want to hang out sometime this week,” he said. “I thought maybe you could bring your flask again and we could have another drink.”  
  
I stared at him for a moment, trying to see if I could figure out his game, any hidden motivations that may lay beneath his calm exterior. Nothing. He just stood, waiting patiently for my response.  
  
“Yeah, okay,” I agreed, feeling a tad flustered. I think I was experiencing what girls called butterflies in your stomach. “That sounds...yeah, okay.”  
  
Harry shot a bright smile and my stomach did a stupid little flip. “Brilliant,” he said happily.”I've got Quidditch practice tomorrow, but how about Tuesday?”  
  
I could have had a meeting with the Muggle Queen scheduled for Tuesday and I wouldn't have remembered it at the time; I was too distracted by watching Potter's lips move as his spoke. It's not usual for me to go so long between fucks, and it is clearly beginning to mess with my head. Eventually, I remembered to nod.   
  
Potter smiled again and said, “Eight o'clock? Room of Requirement again?”  
  
It was surprising that I didn't get sick, because my stomach did another violent little turn. Alone in the Room of Requirement with Potter and copious amounts of alcohol? It sounded just like what the Healer ordered.  
  
“Yeah,” I agreed, cursing how thick my voice suddenly sounded. “I'll be there.”  
  
“See you then,” Potter said with a grin. And then, the bastard winked.  
  
  
 ** _October 14, 1997_**  
  
It is almost eight o'clock and I am due to meet Potter outside the Room of Requirement in fifteen minutes. I'm more nervous than I should be.   
  
  
 ** _October 15, 1997_**  
  
Everything has gone to hell.  
  
  
 ** _October 15, 1997_**  
  
I apologize for that histrionic entry. Perhaps now that I have had the chance to calm myself, I can write down what has happened without making a melodramatic fool of myself.   
  
Potter was already there when I arrived at the Room of Requirement last night. How he got in is beyond me, considering I didn't explain to him how to use the room's magic. Either he is more observant than I thought or he asked around and figured out the room’s secret on his own. Enterprising little bugger.  
  
I knocked on the small door in the wall, but didn't wait for his response before pushing through. Surprisingly enough, the layout was similar to what it had been the first time we were there together, the ominous bed in the corner included. The furniture seemed a bit more comfortable and well-worn than it had been when I was the one summoning the powers of the room, but it wasn’t really a point to linger over. Perhaps comfort would be preferable in this instance, I thought.  
  
Potter looked up when he heard me enter. He held up a full sized bottle of firewhiskey and grinned. “Looks like this room will provide just about anything you want,” he said, “even if its banned by Filch.”  
  
I was somewhat relieved to see his large store of alcohol. I wasn't entirely sure that the contents of my small flask were going to be enough to get both me and Potter through this night.  
  
He poured us both drinks as I shed my robe and sat next him on the settee, rolling up my shirtsleeves and loosening my tie in a meager effort to get comfortable. Potter was wearing a simple t-shirt, ratty old denims, and trainers.  
  
We made awkward small talk as we drained our glasses a few times, refilling them with alarming frequency. In hindsight, I probably should have paced myself better, but I was anxious to bolster my confidence, even through artificial means. And I couldn't let Potter think he could out drink me, naturally.  
  
The firewhiskey sat pleasantly in my belly, warming me from the inside and loosening my defenses. It seemed to have a similar effect on Potter, whose cheeks were flushed and who began to laugh just a little too loudly at jokes that weren't all that funny. I didn't mind though, his laugh was pleasant, and it was thrilling to get a happy response from him.  
  
My nerves reignited when we hit a natural lull in conversation. I was desperate to keep the amicable feeling going, but as I opened my mouth to ask some innocuous question I can't even remember, Potter opened his and beat me to it.  
  
“So, do you spend a lot of time in here?” he asked, a bit too casual. “I mean, do you bring a lot of people here?”  
  
His eyes left mine and slid to the bed in the corner. I felt my cheeks pinken. “I have,” I answered quickly. “In the past though, not...not recently.”  
  
“And what do you usually do with them up here?” he asked, his gaze fixed on his fingers as they traced the rim of his glass.  
  
Swallowing thickly, I answered, “Oh, you know. This and that.”  
  
Potter let out a bark of a laugh. “This and that?” he asked with an incredulous smile. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re not being entirely honest?”  
  
The shift in the atmosphere was immediate and tangible, the tension so thick you could cut it with a Slicing Charm. My heart began to beat faster as my anticipation grew. We both knew where this conversation was heading, what this entire night was leading to, and we both seemed similarly inclined to follow it where it took us.  
  
“Because I’m not,” I said, setting my glass carefully on the ground. “If you'd prefer, I could show you.”  
  
Potter put his glass down as well, although with a little less grace. It tipped over, the remaining drops of firewhiskey spilling out onto the floor. I couldn't be bothered by the spill, because Potter was scooting closer to me, his lips slightly parted and his eyes filled with a quiet hunger.  
  
“I'd like that,” he whispered.  
  
I stared at those lips. I wanted to kiss him so badly; it's all I've been able to think about for the past week. I wanted to get him out of those hideous clothes of his, to see his body in all it's Quidditch toned glory. I wanted to press against him, to feel him squirm and writhe beneath me. I wanted to get my hands on his cock, to feel it swell and pulse under my touch. I wanted to make him come, to watch as his eyes rolled back and his body trembled.  
  
A thrill shot down my spine when our knees bumped together. It was a careless, casual touch, but it was just enough to break my resolve. I was too anxious, too excited, too bloody eager. I launched myself at him, shoving his shoulders so that he fell back against cushions as I attacked his mouth with a clumsy kiss borne of passion and impatience.  
  
He let out a startled noise, but it quickly gave way to a moan as I pressed myself against him. Our lips crashed together artlessly as we scrambled to arrange ourselves on the sofa, with me straddling his hips so I could rub myself against him as we kissed.  
  
My desperate frotting would have been embarrassing if I hadn't felt the firm weight of his erection sliding against mine through his denims. His hands latched onto my hips as he began to guide my movements, forcing me to slow the roll of my hips. He dug his feet flat into the cushions so that he could push up against me. His hands slipped around my sides to cup my arse, squeezing it in his large hands, holding me in place while we continued to rock against each other.  
  
Potter tried to throw his head back, but the arm of the settee was in the way. He let out a frustrated groan as his grip on my arse strengthened. Wrenching his mouth free from mine, he panted, “Bed. Now.”  
  
I couldn't have agreed more. I'd been waiting so long for this. I extracted myself from his hold and quickly climbed off, pulling him up and against me. We stumbled towards the bed, unwilling to break our kiss even as we and tore at each others' clothing.  
  
When I felt my leg hit the edge of the bed, Potter's shirt was completely off and mine was unbuttoned and hanging from one shoulder. He'd gotten my belt and trousers undone, but they still sat securely on my hips. Before I knew what was happening, his hand was inside my trousers, wrapped around my prick.  
  
“Fuck,” I gasped as he held me in a tight grip and began to pump the shaft with a dry hand. It was an awkward angle and his hand was pulling me in rough, jerky movements, but it still felt so incredible. It was the best bloody wank I'd ever felt.  
  
Without a word, Potter fell to his knees and tugged my trousers and pants down so that they pooled at my ankles. My cock bobbed comically in the air, so fucking close to Potter's face that I wanted to cry. It took every scrap of self-control I had left not to just grab the back of his head and force my way into his mouth.  
  
One of his hands wrapped around the base of my cock as he opened his mouth and leaned forward. Unable to tear my eyes away, I watched in awe as Potter's pink tongue swiped across the head. Potter's eyes opened and he looked up at me, holding me in a challenging gaze as he ran his tongue in one long, flat lick from the base of my cock to the very tip, twirling his tongue around the crown and dipping into the slit.  
  
Without further preamble, he pulled his lips over his teeth and sank down, engulfing me in the wet, warm cavern of his mouth. His eyes remained locked on mine as he began to move, his head bobbing slightly as he worked my cock with his mouth, his tongue pressing hard against the underside.   
  
I couldn't hold his gaze anymore; it was too intense. My hands settled on the top of his head, brushing through his messy black hair. A strangled moan escaped me as I let my head fall back and curled my fingers in his hair, tugging lightly in encouragement.  
  
When he pulled away, I groaned in disappointment. He chuckled and stood, stopping to press the heel of his palm against his own erection, which I could see trapped beneath the worn fabric of his denims. I could only imagine how uncomfortable it must have been for him, so with a coquettish bat of my lashes I asked, “Would you like help with that?”  
  
“Yeah,” he said gruffly. “But get on the bed first.”  
  
I sat on the edge of the bed and allowed him to pull my shoes, socks, and trousers off completely. “All the way on,” he instructed as he toed off his own trainers.  
  
Slipping out of my shirt, I crawled to the center of the bed and arranged myself neatly amongst the pillows. I watched him hungrily as he crawled towards me. He stopped with his knees on either side of my hips and hovered above me. My fingers fumbled with the button and zip of his denims as I hurried to undo them.  
  
When I wrenched his denims and pants down to his thighs, he let out a relieved groan as his cock popped free. I couldn't decide what I'd rather look at: his cock, thick and red and already beginning to drip with precome or the way his face twisted and his mouth fell open as I took him in my hand and began to stroke him gently.  
  
“Goddammit, Draco,” he moaned. “Feels so good.”  
  
“Yeah?” I asked, adding a twist to my wrist as I moved over the crown. I reached up to cup his sac with my other hand, rolling his bollocks in my palm and slipping two fingers back to press against his perineum. “What about that?”  
  
Potter's hips began to rock, pushing himself into my fist. “So good. Fuck, Draco...”  
  
“We could do that too,” I said.  
  
Potter's eyes snapped open. “Yes,” he nearly growled. “Fuck yes.”  
  
Potter’s pounce took me by surprise. He landed on top of me, his mouth crashing against mine as his hands roamed over every bit of flesh he could find. His denims were still caught around his thighs. The rough material scratched my skin.  
  
I managed to wrench my mouth free long enough to demand, “Clothes, Potter. Off. Now.”  
  
Our limbs tangled as we both struggled to liberate him from his clothing. I barely got an entire eyeful of his naked body before he was on top of me again, yanking my head back so that he could attach himself to my neck, sucking the skin into his mouth and biting hard enough to make me keen.   
  
He is slightly shorter than I am, but wider and more strongly built: all compact muscles and golden skin. His body was a delicious weight as it slid again mine, our erections pressing together, hot flesh against hot flesh. He shifted, and I felt his hand curl around my prick once more, holding it tightly against his own.  
  
I've never felt more desperate to get off than I did in that moment. I felt consumed by my own lust, as though I were drowning in a roaring sea of hormones and unfulfilled want. It was almost painful, how hot and tender my throbbing cock felt in his hand.  
  
“Draco,” Potter panted. His head dropped so he could bite and suck at the hollow of my throat and across my collarbone. “I want you so bad.”  
  
“Yes,” I repeated, mindlessly echoing him. “Want you too.”  
  
“I want to fuck you, Draco. Please, Draco, I  _need_  to fuck you.”  
  
A spark of electric pleasure that made my cock jumped in his hand coursed through me at his words. My head was swimming, both from the drink and my own desire. But despite how frantic I felt, I was not so far gone that I was some mindless sex slave who would agree to anything. I've  _never_ , and I do mean never, bottomed for anyone. I'd never even considered something like that. The fact that I am the one who does the fucking was a foregone conclusion, a matter not even open for discussion.  
  
But Potter wasn't opening a line of discussion. His hands were tracing the sides of my body, trailing further and further south, slipping underneath me so that he could grasp my arse and  _squeeze_.  
  
“Wait!” I cried, suddenly alarmed. I tried to slide out of his grip, but was pinned to the bed by his weight.  
  
He pulled back slightly, a look of confusion and worry on his face. “What's wrong?”   
  
I felt so vulnerable, lying beneath him completely naked while he looked at me with such care and concern. Well, there might have been a bit of hunger and a little impatience thrown into his expression for good measure, but it was the sincerity of his gaze that made me shift uncomfortably below him.  
  
“I-I've never...”  
  
“Don't try and tell me you're a virgin,” he said incredulously. “Not after all your big talk.”  
  
“Of course not,” I snapped. I tried to cross my arms in front my chest, but Potter caught them and pinned them above my head. I wish I could say that it did nothing for me, but there was something ineffably erotic about the feeling of physical helplessness that the position inspired.  
  
“What then?” he asked, with another thrust of his hips that made my eyes go cross.  
  
“I've fucked plenty of people,” I bit out, trying to sound confident and strong. But when I made my next statement, even I could hear the hesitance in my voice. “I've just... _I've_  never been the one being fucked before.”  
  
The maddening concern slipped from Potter's face and was replaced by a sly smile. “Is that all?” he asked, humor curling around the edge of his voice.   
  
I wanted to argue that it was no trivial matter to be so callously dismissed, but Potter bent down and caught my mouth with his, swallowing any further objections in a kiss.  
  
“You should try it sometime,” he said against my lips. “You could try it now.”  
  
He released his hold on my wrists and slid one hand down the length of my arm. I shivered, marveling at the way such a light touch could feel so overwhelming. His hand ghosted over my chest and down, trailing through the line of coarse hair below my navel and to wrap around my cock once more. He pumped me lazily in his thick fist and whispered, “Let me fuck you, Draco. I'll make it so good for you. I promise.”  
  
I was nervous – beyond nervous, in fact. Was I really going to agree to this?  
  
One look into Potter's eyes and my reservations melted away. Or, more honestly,  _most_  of them did. I wasn't worried that it would hurt necessarily, but the idea of giving myself to someone else, of allowing them inside of my body, was foreign and new. But there was something about Potter that made me think that despite my instinctive apprehension, I could trust him with this. If he said he'd make it feel good, then he would.  
  
And I could see how badly he wanted it. He wanted it, and I wanted to give him what he wanted. I managed a small nod and thickly whispered, “All right.”  
  
He surged forward, his hands coming up to hold my face still as he snogged me feverishly. I kissed back enthusiastically, feeling delirious and mad. And I must have been mad, considering what I'd just consented to.  
  
My breath came in erratic, short gasps as Potter kissed his way down the line of my body. My abdominal muscles were already sore from clenching in anticipation every time he touched me. Lower and lower he sank until he was between my legs, pressing soft, wet kisses against my sac.   
  
A sense of panic filled me when his hands hooked around the back of my knees. But Potter, so attentive and kind, sensed this and began to whisper comforting nothings against my skin.  
  
“Roll onto your stomach,” he instructed gently.  
  
It felt nice, languid and sensual, as he caressed and kissed and explored my backside. I could feel his heavy cock brush against my leg as he moved. He massaged my arse, pushing the cheeks together and pulling them apart in turn.   
  
I tensed when he spread my arsecheeks and held them open. He was still for the first time since we'd fallen onto the bed and I knew, just knew, that he was sitting behind me, staring at my arsehole. I felt simultaneously embarrassed and aroused knowing that he was looking hungrily at a part of my body that no one else has ever even seen before.  
  
His finger traced the line of my crack and I couldn't help but jump, instinctively trying to close my legs and hide myself.  
  
“Relax, Draco. I know what I'm doing.”  
  
My fingers curled into the bedsheets as I willed myself to relax, telling myself that I was safe in his arms. Potter was kind and gentle and wouldn't hurt me, wouldn't humiliate me, wouldn't take advantage of my vulnerability, or think less of me for this.  
  
I trusted Potter, I reminded myself.   
  
The feel of his tongue was a foreign, but not unpleasant, surprise. His stubble scratched against my skin as he burrowed his face between my cheeks, his tongue swirling lazy circles around my hole. I pressed back against him, finding the thought of his tongue pushing inside me to be incredibly erotic. I wanted him to stop teasing; I wanted to feel him press inside.  
  
When he pulled away, he laughed at my petulant whine. He bit me, right where my arsecheek met my thigh and gave the curve of my arse a gentle slap. “Do you think this room can provide us some lube?” he asked.  
  
I scowled at him over my shoulder, lest he think he could start spanking me whenever he felt like, but answered him anyway. I nodded towards the small piece of furniture beside the bed. “Check the nightstand.” Anytime I'd been in here before, the room had had it waiting there.  
  
I missed the weight of Potter's body, but enjoyed the view of his muscular back, as he crawled across the bed and reached for the drawer. I didn't recognize the name on the bottle Potter pulled out, but figured that he'd gotten brand preference since this was his show.  
  
I'd expected him to get straight to it, but Potter surprised me again. He spent a few minutes working over the muscles in my shoulders and back, using the lube as a makeshift massage oil. He was a skilled masseuse and I had no choice but to relax as he rubbed the remaining tension from me with his strong hands.  
  
When he finally reached my arse, the lube felt cold and alien as he spread it between my cheeks. He nudged my legs apart with his knees and used one hand to spread my arsecheeks open again.   
  
“What about fingers?” he asked in a thick voice as he traced the rim of my arsehole. “Has anyone ever fucked you with their fingers?”  
  
I buried my face into one of the pillows, unwilling to let him see how red it had gone. I shook my head.  
  
“God, I'm going to be the first,” he said, voice full of wonder. “You have no clue how hot that is.”  
  
I sucked in a deep, surprised breath when I felt his finger breach me. He didn't even push in that deep from what I could tell, but it was still strange. He whispered for me to relax, to trust him, as he pulled his finger back and pressed it in again, just a little farther this time.  
  
I emptied my mind and focused on keeping my breath steady as he continued to fuck me with that single finger. My calming technique worked. When I felt him line up a second finger and slide it in with the first, I didn't even flinch. My body was opening itself to accept him.  
  
His fingers were wide but short, and I was struck by the sudden urge to have them deeper. If Potter was going to fuck me, I wanted him to  _fuck_  me. I rocked back against him, letting him know that I could handle it, that I could take more. Despite my initial reticence, I wasn't some porcelain doll that could be broken easily.   
  
A low, strangled moan escaped my chest when he added a third finger. “Too much?” he asked, even as them he pushed inside.  
  
“No,” I groaned into the pillow. “Not enough.”  
  
He chuckled in reply. His knuckles knocked against me and I knew that I was taking as much he could give me. Unless he fancied putting his whole hand up there (which I was certainly  _not_  going to suggest), it was time for the main event. I was filled with an anxious sort of excitement that made my skin prickle.  
  
I lifted my head from the pillow and turned to look at him over my shoulder. His face was flushed and his chest was heaving. His cock, gorgeous and thick and darkened by arousal, jut out from a thick thatch of black curls. I felt my own cock, which had softened slightly as he prepared me, twitch at the thought that something so beautiful was going to be inside of me.  
  
Potter pulled at my hips, trying to turn me over. I resisted, much preferring to hide my reactions in the pillow beneath me. But then he said, “Please, I want to see you,” and I knew I couldn’t deny a request like that.  
  
I rolled onto my back and watched silently as he squirted another large glob of lubricant onto his hand and coated his prick with it. I said nothing as he lifted my hips and wrapped my legs around his waist. He braced himself with one hand and took his cock in the other, pumping himself a few times before angling his cock so that the fleshy dome of his cockhead pressed against my entrance.   
  
I exhaled deeply and waited.  
  
Despite all of Harry's careful preparations, the initial penetration was uncomfortable, even a little painful as he pushed through the first ring of tight muscle. He didn't pause, just kept going, sinking further into me in one long, slow slide until I felt the flat of his groin come to rest against the swell of my arse. It was only then that I realized that I had forgotten to breathe.   
  
It was strange to be on this side of the equation, to understand for the first time the way a body must yield to such an intrusion. It might sound obvious to say I felt full, but it's wasn't until that moment that I'd had any reason to think I'd been empty before.  
  
“All right?” he asked.  
  
The muscles in his chest and stomach were taut, pulled tight with the strain of holding still. Sweat was beading on his brow and upper lip. I wanted to reach up and wipe it away.  
  
I shifted, acutely aware of the pressure inside of me, of the foreign object that was stretching me open. “It feels...” I said slowly, wiggling slightly as I tried to get used to the sensation. “It feels like I have something stuck up in my arse.”  
  
I could tell by his crestfallen expression that this was not the answer he'd been hoping to hear.  
  
“It's not bad,” I added quickly, “just...strange.”  
  
He managed a small nod and began to move. He pulled back, no quicker than he'd entered. The slow pace he set was torturous, I could feel  _everything_. Every ridge and vein of his cock, dragging against the walls of my passage. “Is this okay?”  
  
“Just do it,” I said, bucking my hips, trying to force him back inside. I knew he was holding back, trying to be gentle for me, but I was wound too tight waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Just fucking fuck me already.”  
  
I hardly had time for a startled gasp before he'd pulled back and slammed forward again.  
  
Once given the go ahead, Harry fucked beautifully, brutally. His eyes darted between the junction between my legs and my face. I couldn't blame him for wanting to watch his prick disappear inside me. I know for a fact that it's an intoxicating sight, but his gaze kept returning to my face, checking for signs of discomfort.  
  
Harry Potter is ten times the lover I am, because I have never once bothered with that.  
  
After only a minute or two of his pistoning hips, I felt completely fucked open. My body was no longer resisting him at all.  
  
Harry fucked with such passion and strength that I had to press my hands against the headboard to keep my head from banging against it. The move proved beneficial, because I now had the leverage I needed to push back against him, so that each time out bodies collided it was with a loud slap of flesh and a painful burst of pleasure deep within me.   
  
The desperate edge to my arousal came back in full force. My cock swelled again, bouncing wetly against my stomach as he thrust into me. I clenched and unclenched my muscles, trying to grip his cock inside of me and make each of his desperate thrusts heavenly. I didn't just want to get off anymore, I wanted to get Harry off as well. My pleasure was dependent upon his.  
  
It seemed the same was true for him, because he kept asking me how it felt, if it was good, if I liked it. I was so distracted by the indescribable feeling of having Harry’s cock forcing its way inside me, I could barely answer his questions with anything more than mindless chants of, “Yes, yes, yes,” as he fucked me into the mattress.   
  
Even as our coupling grew more frantic and uncontrolled, Harry still continued to watch my face. More than once I had to tear my eyes away from his own, unable to stand the ferocious tenderness I saw within them.  
  
Precome was leaking from the tip of my neglected cock and leaving a sticky mess on my belly. I wrapped my hand around myself, surprised to feel how hot and sensitive I was to the touch. Even with such a light grip, it could feel myself throbbing in my hand.  
  
“Fuck,” I heard Harry nearly growl from above me, “Do it, Draco. Touch yourself. Wank yourself, Draco. I want to see you come. I want to  _feel_  you come while I'm fucking you. Fucking you so hard in your tight little arse.”  
  
My cock twitched and my toes curled. I felt the familiar pull in my groin as I did what Harry bade. I didn't know whether to focus on thrusting against him or into the loose channel of my fist; both sensations felt so damn good.  
  
Unable to decide, I ended up doing neither. I just relaxed and let the waves of pleasure roll over me as Harry fucked me and I wanked myself lightly. My mind went deliciously blank, filled with nothing but the sounds of Harry's panting breath and his guttural moans.  
  
My orgasm was building. And even though I knew it was coming, I was taken completely by surprise when it happened. There was nothing special about that particular thrust, my hand hadn't tightened its grip, but my stomach dropped and stars burst behind my eyelids as every muscle in my body began to spasm. Thick ropes of my own come landed across my belly and chest as my arse clenched tight around Harry’s cock. It was as if my body was trying to keep him inside me, refusing to relinquish its hold on him.  
  
Above me, Harry was losing it. He had an absolutely filthy mouth, expletive after expletive tumbled from his lips as his eyes screwed shut and his rhythm began to falter. I tried to grip him with my muscles, to make my passage as tight and unyielding as I possibly could.  
  
“Fuck,” he panted; “Draco,” he moaned; “I’m going to fucking come,” he cried.   
  
I opened my eyes just in time to see him fall over the edge. I felt detached: watching, mesmerized, as the planes of his face shifted. From an almost pained look, his expression melted into peaceful relief as the muscles in his face went slack. A great, satisfied groan escaped, sounding as though it was ripped from deep within his chest as his cock twitched inside me.  
  
I waited, watching him closely until his eyes fluttered open and found mine. His chest was heaving, his breath coming in short, desperate gulps for air. Using what little strength I had left, I surged towards him. Throwing my arms around his shoulders, I dragged him down, catching his mouth in a frenzied kiss as I pulled him against me.  
  
Harry laughed happily against my lips, one hand coming up to cup my face. There was a moment of awkwardness when he reached between our bodies with the other hand to pull himself out of me and I felt a few drops of his come dribble out of my hole and slide down my arse. But he was back in an instant, covering me with his body, lavishing me with jubilant, open-mouthed kisses.   
  
“I can’t believe you left these on,” I laughed dizzily, pulling off the glasses that were digging into the side of my face. I tossed them blindly onto the nightstand beside us and snaked my arms around his neck.  
  
I could feel Harry’s smile against my neck. “I said I wanted to see you.”  
  
I’m not usually one for a post-coital cuddle, but I felt almost giddy lying there with him. My sex-addled brain demanded I remain close, that I try to hold on to that post-orgasmic euphoria as long as I could. I wrapped myself around him as he peppered my shoulders with light kisses and gentle bites.   
  
When I heard Harry’s yawn, I wasn’t surprised. He had just exerted an incredible amount of energy, after all. I was feeling worn out myself, and far too comfortable in the large bed with Harry’s warm body pressed against me. The thought of the long trip back to the cold, lonely dungeons displeased me, making me strengthen my grip around Harry’s back.   
  
“I don’t want to go back,” I said with a grumble. If there was a whine in my voice, it was only because I was too tired to keep it out.   
  
“Then don’t,” he said. He pulled free of my grip and rolled onto his back, stretching languidly against the mattress. “Stay the night with me.”  
  
I bit my lip and considered it. I’d never passed the night with a lover before, preferring the peace and solitude of my own bed.   
  
Harry was waiting -- expectant but patient -- for my response. I almost said no, but I caught a hint of trepidation in his eyes. My chest felt tight at the thought of disappointing him, and I knew I couldn’t leave. And more than just that, I found that I didn’t really want to either. I wanted to know what it would be like to wake up next to someone.   
  
I slid closer and curled myself against his body, resting my head on his chest so that I could hear the quickened beat of his heart. Harry’s hand came up to stroke lightly across my back. The tightness in my own chest uncoiled, replaced by a fond contentedness that made me feel like purring.   
  
Without either of us saying a word, the line of torches on the wall dimmed, throwing the room into near darkness. Cocooned in Harry’s arms, I fell into a deep and peaceful sleep that didn’t break ‘til morning.  
  
I will pause there for now. Transcribing this story has affected me and I do not wish to continue until I can get my head on straight. Suffice it to say, the fond and gentle emotions of that night couldn’t last. Things always look different in the harsh light of morning.  
  
  
 _ **October 16, 1997**_  
  
With yet another day’s distance between myself and that night, I am beginning to see things more clearly. I believe I shall be able continue the story without becoming unnecessarily maudlin from this point on.  
  
The next morning (which would have been, of course, yesterday morning) was perfectly pleasant. I’ve always been an early riser and sharing a bed with Harry did nothing to change that. Harry, however, continued to snore at my side -- quite loudly, in fact -- as I stretched awake and began to catalogue the ways in which things had changed since the previous evening.  
  
That should say something about my state of mind right there. I was obviously still punch-drunk from one a hell of a fuck. Even entertaining the notion that something so basic as fornication could change a person was absurd.  
  
Eventually, I got tired of waiting. There was dried come on my skin, a strange soreness in my arse, and nothing in my stomach. I needed food, a shower, and coffee, although, not necessarily in that order. But what I needed first was for that lazy lump next to me to wake up and kiss me goodbye.  
  
He didn’t respond to his name, although I snaked myself around him and whispered it into his ear. His breathing pattern shifted slightly when I began to kiss his neck, but remained deep. It wasn’t until I gave up playing nice and sank my teeth into his shoulder that his eyes fluttered open.  
  
“That hurt,” he said grumpily, pushing me away. He seemed to immediately change his mind about that however, because he wrapped his hands around my upper arms and pulled me back against him. He caught my mouth in a soft kiss that tasted terrible, but still made my stomach flutter.   
  
“Aren’t you going to apologize?” he asked. “It’s not nice to bite.”  
  
Feeling quite cheeky, I said no and bit him again.  
  
Harry laughed and pushed against me. For a few carefree minutes we wrestled like children, trying to pin the other to the bed. I let him win, but only because I enjoyed having his weight on top of me. He snogged me again and I almost lost myself in it completely, but a well-timed grumble in my stomach reminded me that there were places to go, people to manipulate, and breakfast pastries to eat.  
  
Ignoring his unhappy whine, I wriggled out of his grip. I could feel his eyes on my backside as I crawled to the edge of the bed, leaning over with a languorous stretch to collect my discarded clothing from the floor.  
  
“Don’t do that,” he said with a pout as I slipped my shirt back on. “I like you better without all your poncy clothes.”  
  
Looking back, I should have been irritated by that.  
  
He tried to grab for me but I dodged his outstretched arms with a laugh. “It’s time to go,” I said, although I wasn’t much happier about it than he was. “We’ve got lessons this morning.”  
  
Harry grumbled, playing the brat, as he bent over the edge of the bed to pick up his own clothing. We dressed slowly, pausing to kiss and tease each other, both trying to steal a few more minutes before we had to leave this warm sanctuary and return to the drafty castle.  
  
When we were finally at the door, he pulled me into another embrace. “Tonight. Here, at the same time.”  
  
I never agree to another tryst so soon after the first. It’s best to make oneself unavailable, lest your partner think they have some sort of claim to your time, but I didn't want to play those games with Harry. I _wanted_  to see him again. Why should I deny myself that? They were my rules, I could break them if I wanted.  
  
I smiled into the kiss and agreed.  
  
Out in the hall, we lingered for a moment, our hands held tight. With a sheepish smile, Harry blushed and mumbled a goodbye, before turning and leaping up the stairs, taking two at a time. I left in the opposite direction, heading towards the dungeons. Although my stomach was painfully empty, I required a shower first. There was no way I could appear in public with my own come dried on my stomach and Harry's all over the backs of my thighs.  
  
The common room was nearly empty when I arrived, most of the house already at breakfast. Pansy, however, was sprawled across one of the comfier settees, a dog-eared copy of “Witch Weekly” in her hands. I moved quickly and quietly across the room, making a beeline for the dormitories, but as my hand settled on the doorknob that led down the boys' corridor, she called my name.  
  
“Draco,” she singsonged. “What hour do you call this to be sneaking in?”  
  
With a longing glance at the closed door, I sighed. Hopefully this wouldn't take too long. I was desperate for a hot shower and a wank.  
  
Turning to her, I said, “I call this morning.”  
  
Her head appeared over the back of the settee. “And what – or should I say whom – were you doing until this ungodly hour?”   
  
Unwilling to have this conversation across the expanse of the common room, I crossed to her and perched on the arm of the settee beside her outstretched feet. “If you must know,” I said quietly, “I was with Potter.”  
  
Surprise flickered across her face, but was quickly replaced by a predatory grin. “Oh, really?Does that mean you've completed your mission?”  
  
A feeling of discomfort twisted inside me to hear what I had just shared with Harry being described as “a mission,” but I nodded anyway.  
  
Pansy reclined again and pulled the magazine in front of her face. “I'm sorry to hear it,” she said. “I will, however, require verification before I concede defeat. Come to my room tonight during dinner,” she instructed lazily, turning a page. “I'll have the house-elves bring something for us. We can dine together and you can share your victory with me.”  
  
Since she could not see my face, I allowed myself an enormous eye roll. “Yes, your Highness,” I said with a sneer.  
  
She lowered the magazine and smiled at me beatifically. “You're dismissed.”  
  
I bit back my retort and made my escape. It's never wise to get into a snarking match with her before I've had my morning coffee.  
  
I did my daily preparations quickly and was able to catch the last ten minutes of breakfast. Harry wasn't in the Great Hall, but I didn't know if it was because he had come and gone or not made it in time for breakfast at all.  
  
Lessons passed quickly, although I can't say I was very attentive in them. My stomach was knotted with anxiety as my mind vacillated between dreading my meeting with Pansy and anticipating my rendezvous with Harry. The few times I was able to catch his eye throughout the day, we shared small, secret smiles that allowed the knot inside of me to unwind long enough for my stomach to flip.  
  
Late in the afternoon I found myself in the common room, sandwiched between Vince and Greg as they argued over who the likely contenders for next year's Quidditch World Cup would be. They asked my opinion and I answered distractedly, my eyes tracking Pansy as she rose from her seat by the fire and sauntered towards the door that led to the girls' dormitories. She caught my eye before she disappeared down the corridor. I knew I was meant to follow once the others had gone.  
  
I brushed off invitations to dinner, citing a headache, and waited until the common room cleared before I sneaked into the girls' corridor. At the end of the hall there was a door that had been left slightly ajar, allowing a sliver of light to escape from the crack. I knocked quietly and let myself in.  
  
Pansy was waiting for me, wearing a thin silk dressing gown tied at the waist. A lesser woman would stumble on the height of the heels she wore, but Pansy crossed the room with grace. “So nice of you to join me,” she said, her voice low. “I thought we could dispense with dinner until after we've concluded our business.”  
  
She gestured towards a writing desk in the corner, on which a small stone basin was set. I approached it slowly, understanding dawning. Pansy had managed to get her hands on a Pensieve and wanted me to share the memory of my night with Harry.  
  
I gazed into the swirling liquid pool, unsure if that was something I was willing to do. It seemed like an incredible breach of trust. It is one thing snag someone's undergarments, but I wasn't sure this was entirely ethical.  
  
I felt Pansy approach me from behind, pressing the length of her body against my back. “Although if you'd rather forfeit...” she purred into my ear. “I've always fancied a spring wedding.”  
  
Her words made me bristle. Was I really going to let something trivial like ethics stop me from winning? Clenching my jaw in determination, I pulled my wand from my robe and raised it to my temple.  
  
I ignored the strange tingling sensation in my brain as I pulled the memory from my mind in the form of a long, opalescent string. Gingerly, I placed it into the basin and stepped back, allowing Pansy to step in front of the pensieve and dip her head inside.  
  
While Pansy watched the previous night's events, I paced the empty dorm room. My anxiety spiked. How could I go to Harry tonight knowing that I had betrayed his confidence in this way? Should I come clean and tell him?  
  
I dismissed that thought quickly. As much as I enjoy his company, this school year is going to end in my betrothal, whether to Pansy or the younger Greengrass. That much was beyond my control. I should just keep my mouth shut and get as much from this brief affair with him as I could. There was no reason for him to know; it would only hurt him and spoil our fun.  
  
After what felt like an eternity, Pansy pulled out of the pensieve. She turned to me, her face white with shock. We stared at each other for a tortuously long moment. I was screaming inside, desperate for her to speak, to stop looking at me with such gobsmacked horror.  
  
The tension was broken when she tipped her head back and began to laugh. It was a mad and unkind cackle that made her entire body shake. She stumbled towards the bed, leaning against one of the posts for support as she gripped her sides and howled with cruel delight.  
  
“What?!” I demanded. “What are you laughing at?!”  
  
“You!” she cried. “I can't believe it! Draco, you!”  
  
My anger was growing quickly, spiraling out of control. I had to yell to hear myself over her taunting laugh. “What's so funny?!”  
  
Pansy lowered herself, still grasping her stomach, to the edge of the bed as her mad giggles petered out. She reached up to wipe away a few tears that had slipped from the corner of her eyes during her hideous imitation of a hyena.  
  
“Did you actually think I would accept that?” she asked with disbelief. “You were supposed to seduce Potter. You were supposed to have him on his knees and begging for your cock. Instead, you were on your back with your knees at your ears, whimpering like a whore for his.”   
  
I drew myself up, trying to stand as tall and proud. “Our bet didn't stipulate which position we'd take,” I said, struggling the keep my voice calm and icy. “If you're trying to renege on your part of our deal, don't bother. I won, Pansy. I did what I said I was going to do.”  
  
There was no humor in her voice when she spoke again. “No, you didn't, Draco. You've lost, and more than just this stupid bet. You've lost yourself, everything you were before. The man I saw in there,” she said, pointing at the pensieve, “that wasn't you. That was some lovesick fool with stars in his eyes.”  
  
I have no clue what I looked like at the moment, but I felt murderous. I took a step towards her. She pulled herself upright and squared her jaw.  
  
“I've won,” I said. “You'd better accept that and prepare yourself, love, because I  _will_  collect my prize.”  
  
“Sorry, darling,” she said, the endearment rolling off her tongue with ill-contained contempt, “but I don't fuck fussy little bottoms. I only fuck real men: ones whom I can respect.”  
  
I could feel the muscle in my jaw pulsing, straining from being held taut too long. I was nearly blind with rage and embarrassment.  
  
I waited too long to respond and she took advantage of my silence, surging forward so that I had to take a step back to prevent her from colliding into me.   
  
“Get out of my room,” she said, digging a finger into my chest. “Go back to your precious little Potter, have him help you lick your wounds. Maybe you two can find a cute cottage in Hogsmeade, go shopping for window dressings together. Why don't you adopt some sweet little Mudblood ophans while you're at it? I bet you'd make such a good, loving mother, Draco.”  
  
With every step forward she took, I had to retreat one. I knew that I had lost this argument. In a desperate attempt to inflict a parting wound, I growled, “You're a bitch.”  
  
She gave a humorless laugh. “I've been called worse.  _You've_  called me worse, once upon a time. You've got soft, my love. Now get out of my sight. You disgust me.”  
  
I had no choice but to leave. My mind was whirling too violently to come up with a response. The common room was still deserted as I tore through it and back into the boys' dormitories, slamming the door shut behind me.  
  
Needless to say, I didn't make my appointment with Harry that night. I hid in my bed like the coward I always knew that I was, shutting myself away behind my curtains with silencing and locking charms.  
  
I felt nauseous as I went over the events of that day and the night prior, trying to sort out if there was any truth behind Pansy's accusations. Had I gone soft?  
  
I knew, then and there, that whatever I had with Harry had to end. Not just because I'd lost the bet, not because I'd lost the respect of the closest person I had to a friend, but because I risked losing myself in this mad relationship. Because even if it wasn't yet a relationship, where else could it be heading? Would Harry be able to stand my philandering?   
  
Of course not! He'd demand fidelity. I was scared that if I let whatever was going on between us continue, I would agree to it. And what would happen at the end of the term, when I did my duty and formally announced my engagement? What would Harry think then? Would I be able to do it? If I let this continue, could I give him up in the end?  
  
I had no other choice. I had to break things off with him or risk losing everything I've worked so hard to become. I stayed in hidden in my lonely bed behind a fortress of privacy spells and tried not to think of how warm and wonderful it would be to spend another night sleeping beside him.  
  
It was beyond my control.  
  
I saw him in the Great Hall today. He tried to catch my attention, but I am adept at avoidance when necessary. I don't know how long I will be able to dodge him though. I fear I will have to eventually tell him face to face that whatever we shared the other night can't continue. I just hope I can find the strength when the moment comes.  
  
  
 _ **October 18, 1997**_  
  
I just want everything to go back to normal. I wish I'd never agreed to this stupid bet. I wish I didn't care that I can see the hurt in Harry's voice every time I pretend not to hear him call my name.  
  
Pansy's still not talking to me. Every time I catch her eye, she sneers.  
  
At least it's Saturday and I can spend the entire weekend hiding from them both. If only my father could see me now. He'd probably disown me for being such a cowardly little shit.  
  
  
 _ **October 21, 1997**_  
  
Harry finally caught up to me today. I should have expected it, but I wasn't thinking. I've felt so conflicted these past few days and have had no one to talk to about it. I was worried the stress and guilt and confusion would drive me batty. I needed to clear my head and can only do that when I fly.  
  
I'd only been in the air for twenty minutes when I saw Harry on the ground of the pitch. If I had noticed him sooner, perhaps during the long trek from the castle down to the playing fields, I could have slipped away and been able to convince myself that it didn't look like running. But it was too late now.  
  
I heard him calling my name from the ground below. I ignored him, circling higher and higher into the air. Stubborn brat that he is, he mounted his broom and chased after me.  
  
“Draco!” he yelled, his voice deafening in the silence of the night. “Talk to me right now, dammit!”  
  
I knew what I had to do, but I didn't fancy doing it all that much. I thought that if I were cruel it might be easier. If I wounded him enough, he'd strike back. His anger would be easier to deal with than his hurt.   
  
Slowly, I made my way back to the ground and waited, feeling like a man condemned.   
  
“Why have you been avoiding me?” he asked, immediately upon landing. There was confrontation in his voice and I was glad to hear it. “Why didn't you show up on Wednesday?”  
  
I couldn’t bring myself to look at him as I asked, “Why would I?”  
  
He blinked in confusion. “Because...we agreed to meet. I waited for you. For over an hour. Where were you?”  
  
I cocked my hip and examined my fingernails, trying to project an air of casual indifference. “Wednesday night?” I asked. “Can’t remember, probably having drinks in the common room, maybe reading a bit in the library.”  
  
His nostrils flared. “Why are you acting like such an arsehole?” he demanded, crossing his arms.   
  
“Acting like an arshole?” I asked, rolling my eyes. “Haven’t you heard, Potter? I  _am_  an arsehole. Your dear Weasley told you as much, didn’t he? Bet you wish you’d listened to him now, don't you?”  
  
I could see Harry’s frustration in the line of his shoulders, the set of his jaw. “Will you just tell me what's going on? Why are you acting like this?”  
  
I took a step towards him, crowding his space. Harry didn’t flinch or falter, just stood his ground and stared back at me, his green eyes blazing.   
  
“You want to know what’s going on?” I asked. My voice was rising, I was getting angrier and angrier with each passing second. It wasn’t Harry's fault -- I knew that somewhere in the back of my brain -- but he was there now and he was the one I could yell at. “What’s going on is that it’s over. I played you, Potter. I played you completely. And now that I’ve gotten what I want from you, I’m done with you.”  
  
Harry took a step back, though I got the impression it wasn’t so he could put distance between us, but so he could look at me completely. “No,” he said firmly, shaking his head. “No, I don’t believe it. Something’s happened, something’s made you act this way. This isn’t  _you_ , Draco.”  
  
“You don’t know me!” I snapped, my voice loud enough to echo through the night. “You don’t know a single thing about me! You think that you do, but you don’t. You only saw what I allowed you to see, you filled in the rest with pathetic daydreams.”  
  
I turned on the spot. My entire body was shaking, vibrating with anger and nervous energy. I was gripping the handle of my broom so hard that I worried I might snap the wood in half.   
  
Harry was yelling at my back as I stormed away. I tried to block him out so that I wouldn’t hear his angry voice calling out accusations that were sharp enough to cut, but a few of them slipped through my defenses.   
  
Liar. Coward. Bastard. You know, the usual.  
  
There were two spotty-faced little fifth years sitting in front of the fire when I got back to the dungeons. They were sharing a bottle of firewhiskey, which I commandeered smartly, ignoring their cries of protest. I stalked back towards the boys’ dormitories so quickly that I almost didn’t notice Pansy sitting in the corner with Daphne.  
  
“What’s got your knickers in a twist, Draco?” she called out, her voice taunting. “Lover’s spat?”  
  
I growled at her. She burst into a fit of shrill giggles, leaning towards Daphne, who bent her head low to listen to whatever Pansy was whispering. Daphne began to laugh as well and I let out another growl of frustration. Can I never get a fucking break?  
  
Zabini was in the room when I entered. He opened his mouth to speak, but I hit him with a Silencing Spell so quick that he didn’t even see me draw my wand. I left him with his mouth flapping soundlessly as I crawled into my bed with the bottle of Ogden’s. If I had my way, I’d never be forced to leave.  
  
  
 _ **October 23, 1997**_  
  
Harry hates me and I hate myself.   
  
I see him in the Great Hall, in the corridors, and in lessons. He refuses to so much as look at me, but I catch him staring when he thinks I’m not looking.   
  
I wish I could stop thinking about him, but I can’t.   
  
I need to do something to force myself to forget. I need to do something that reminds me who am I, who I was before Harry. I need to prove Pansy wrong, to show her that I haven't changed. I'm the same heartless bastard I've always been.  
  
Aren't I?  
  
  
 _ **October 25th, 1997**_  
  
So much has happened in just the past few hours, I don’t even know where to begin. I am sitting in a booth at the Three Broomsticks at the moment, hoping to see Harry when he comes in for lunch. I am assuming he and his friends will come here. They don’t seem the sort to go to The Hog’s Head.  
  
I decided yesterday I had done enough moping about over Harry. I’d cut him loose. It was time to wipe my hands clean of the entire affair and get my life back on track. I knew that today was going to be a Hogsmeade trip, so I resolved to find Pansy before she left and ask her for a word.  
  
She didn’t seem too pleased about talking with me, but agreed. With a sour expression she told Greengrass and Bulstrode that she would catch them up later.  
  
Once the upper years had left for the village, I followed her back into her dorm room. She sat herself on the edge of her bed and folded her arms across her chest. “What did you want to talk to me about?” she asked, her voice as hard and cold as the stone mask she wore.  
  
“I did it,” I told her. “I chucked Potter, broke his little heart. You thought I’d gone soft, but you can see that I haven’t.”  
  
She quirked an eyebrow. “Am I supposed to be impressed? Or are you here looking for pity? I don’t deal in broken hearts, Draco. You should know better than that.”  
  
“My heart is not broken! Don’t you understand? I did it and I don’t care. I haven’t changed!  _He hasn’t changed me._ ”  
  
Pansy was quiet for a long moment, regarding me carefully. She shook her head piteously. “That is the saddest thing I have ever heard.”  
  
“How do you mean?” Wasn’t she glad to know that I’d gotten over my flight of fancy? “I thought you’d be pleased.”  
  
“Pleased?” she asked with a scoff. “Why would I be pleased to learn that my former cohort is even more pathetic than I’d originally thought?”  
  
“Pansy, I don’t...” I trailed off, at a loss for words. This was not how I had expected this conversation to go. “I don’t understand. How does this make me more pathetic? Explain it, because I feel like I’ve lost the plot completely.”  
  
She gave a wistful sigh and stood. “Oh Draco,” she said, her voice dripping with mock pity as she moved towards me. “So blind, so ignorant to everything, including his own heart.”   
  
She ran her hand down the side of my face, cupping my cheek. When I tried to turn my head away, her thumb pressed into the other side of my face, holding me still.  
  
“Don’t you see what you’ve done, you foolish little boy? You cared for Potter, plain as day. I knew it even before you showed me that wretched memory. Anyone who saw the way you looked at him across the bloody room would have known.”   
  
I watched as her eyes slid over my face, searching for something, though I know not what. I couldn’t respond, both because my heart was in my throat and because of the tight grip she had on the sides of my face.  
  
“He could have made you happy, Draco. He could have  _loved_  you. And you threw it all away! Why? Because I questioned your manhood? Because I laughed at you? Are you truly that vain? There was a time I considered you my equal, but you’ve proven yourself frightfully easy to manipulate. You’re more than pathetic, Draco” she said, her voice curling around my name as if the very sound of it offended her. “You’re pitiful.”   
  
Her words stung like the kiss of a whip. But then something shifted in my mind. It was like a curtain being drawn back or the clouds parting to the reveal the sun. I looked at Pansy, and it was as if I was seeing her for the first time, seeing the  _real_  her.  
  
She plays the part of the poor, Pureblood princess so beautifully. She imagines herself a tragic figure, the victim of man's oppression. She told me once that she'd had to become stronger than men, crueler than men, in order to survive them. But this wasn't survival; this was sadism. What did this have to do with survival? How were Harry and I threats to her existence?   
  
She withdrew and I watched as she contained herself. It was like watching a skilled actor slip into his role before heading onto the stage. The muscles in her face untwisted as the anger melted from her expression; the confrontational set to her shoulders relaxed; her breaths became steady and gentle. Perching herself on the edge of the bed once more, she smiled at me. If I hadn’t just seen her unmasked, I might never have known the duplicitous nature of her serene smile.   
  
“I don't need your pity,” I said. “In face, if either of us pitiable, I'd say it was you.”  
  
Pansy blinked for a moment, but looked unconcerned. “How do you figure that?”  
  
“Because no one could ever love you,” I said. “Because in the end, you will always be alone. Blaise chose Lovegood over you, and once Longbottom comes to his senses, he will to. They'll always choose someone else, Pansy.  _I_  choose someone else.”  
  
The tic in Pansy's jaw twitched, even as her smile remained perfectly plastered. “Love?” she asked with a sneer. “You think I care about love?”  
  
“Yes. I do.”  
  
She flipped her hair over her shoulder and narrowed her eyes. “Well, you're wrong,” she said, her lip curling. “I care nothing for love. Love is the idle dream of idiots and cowards, Draco. You're just upset because I played you.”  
  
We stared at each other, the long moment stretching out to a short eternity. We were both waiting for the other to speak, to break our silent stand off. She may think me a lovesick fool, but I had her number now.   
  
Even if I've been a terrible cad in my day, I can at least claim that I never set out to intentionally hurt people. I was just too selfish to care when I did. Her motive had never been pleasure. Everything she's ever done has been out of spite.   
  
Eventually she broke the heavily silence. She leaned back against he bed, crossing one leg over the other. “I live by one very simple principle and one principle alone: win or die. Do you really want start a war with me, Draco? And do remember, I’m much better at this than you.”  
  
The muscle in my jaw was straining. “I see no other path for us,” I said tightly.  
  
She looked mildly surprised for moment, then shrugged. “Very well, then. War it is.”  
  
A declaration of war is about an as abrupt dismissal as I can imagine. With one long final glance at my former ally, I stumbled out of the room and down the corridor, dizzied by the new thoughts that swam in my head.   
  
What a fool I had been -- a simple pawn in one of Pansy’s grand games -- to have left Harry. My indignation at having been played so easily was nothing to the bitter realization that I had given something precious away for the sake of pride. Pride in what? In artifice and cruelty and manipulation?  
  
I am not the person I thought I was. I was not the person Pansy had wanted me to be. Harry had been right all along! He had known there was someone better inside me, hidden beneath the layers of artifice, vanity, and delusions of grandeur. The person I thought I was was a figment: a puerile attempt to become some sort of libertine Übermensch.   
  
But that isn't me -- that's Pansy’s true ambition – and I'd been caught up in her game.  
  
I grabbed my journal from beneath my pillow, resolved to find Harry and confess everything. I knew he’d be in Hogsmeade today, so I grabbed my cloak and dashed to the portrait hole. In my haste, I nearly crashed into Neville Longbottom in the corridor.  
  
“Sorry!” I yelled over my shoulder.  
  
“Malfoy! Wait!”  
  
Tampering down my irritation, I paused long enough to snap, “What?”  
  
Longbottom looked slightly offended by my tone of voice, but I rolled my eyes and waited for him to answer with ill-contained impatience.   
  
“Is Pansy still in there?” he asked. “I wanted to ask if she’d walk to Hogsmeade with me.”  
  
Longbottom looked at me queerly, but I couldn’t stop the mad laughter that was bubbling up from inside my chest. “She’s still here,” I answered. “But listen to me, Neville. Stay away from her. Save yourself while you still can.”  
  
He opened his mouth to retort but I was gone before he could say anything, taking the stairs two at a time as I hurried to Hogsmeade as quick as I could. I had to stop more than once on the winding dirt path to the village in order to catch my breath. But I was a man on a mission. I would not be deterred by something as trivial as lung capacity.  
  
I did not see Harry on the High Street, or in any of the shops I peeked into. That is how I’ve ended up in the Three Broomsticks at the moment. It is almost lunchtime by now and I assume he and his friends will be coming here, or at least passing through for a Butterbeer at some point. I do not mind if I have to wait all day.   
  
I have to find Harry and come clean. Nothing has ever been more clear to me than that. I have to tell him of the bet and show him the entries I’d written about him in this journal, to try and explain the truth: my misguided motivations, the way being with him made me feel, so different from anything I’ve ever experienced before. As far as my duty to my family goes, we can deal with that when the time comes. I'd be so stupid if I tried to throw--  
  
  


*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

  
  
A shadow crossed over Draco’s journal. He looked up in surprise, his self-inking quill bleeding ink on the page where it paused.   
  
Neville Longbottom was towering over him, his face set in a silent, stony resolution. Draco blinked, unsure of why Longbottom would be seeking him out with such a murderous look on his face. They’d only just seen each other an hour before when he was on his way--  
  
 _Pansy,_  Draco thought, his stomach dropping like a lead weight. Longbottom had been on his way to see Pansy.  
  
“Outside, Malfoy.  _Now_ ,” Longbottom growled.   
  
Not wanting to cause a scene, Draco pocketed his journal and slid out of the booth. He didn’t know why Longbottom was looking at him with such icy contempt, but he was sure that if he could get him alone, away from a place without so many prying eyes, he could quietly explain that whatever Pansy had told him was a pack of lies.   
  
Instead of leading somewhere more private, Longbottom marched straight into the middle of the High Street and turned towards Draco, his wand drawn.  
  
“Malfoy,” he said, his voice carrying an authoritative weight that surprised Draco even in the moment. “I challenge you to a Wizard’s Duel.”  
  
Draco held his hands up in a placating gesture. “Neville,” he said beseechingly, hoping the familiarity of his given name would make the other man pause for a moment. “Please, stop this. I don’t know what Pansy told you, but--”   
  
“Told me?” Neville interrupted with a hysterical bark of laughter. His hand tightened around the end of his wand as he raised it. “She didn’t have to tell me anything! I saw your handiwork myself!”  
  
Draco took a step backwards, his eyes glued to the end of Longbottom’s shaking wand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I didn’t do anything to her.”  
  
“Liar!” Neville shouted, his wand arm shaking violently. “She was crying so hard when I found her that she made herself sick. I saw the bruises you left behind, you sick bastard.”   
  
A large and curious crowd had begun to grow, a loose ring of inquisitive onlookers forming around the pair. Still, Draco held his hands out, refusing to draw his wand. He would not duel Longbottom over this.   
  
“She’s not the first, is she?” Neville demanded angrily, his voice loud enough to carry across the crowd. “What about Luna? Did you force yourself on her as well?”  
  
“No, no, no,” Draco chanted. “It’s not true, Neville. Pansy’s lying to you. She’s playing you.”  
  
The look in Longbottom’s eyes was feral, vicious. It was like trying to reason with a wild beast. For the first time in his seventeen years, Draco truly felt afraid. He backed away slowly, bumping into one of the onlookers, who shoved him back into the circle with an angry shout.  
  
“She took me to your dorm room, Malfoy, she showed me where you’ve hidden Luna’s knickers. How many others are there?”   
  
“None!” Draco cried, feeling desperate and trapped. He didn’t know what to do, how to talk his way out of this one. He searched the crowd for a friendly face, anyone who might deliver him from this hopeless situation.   
  
From the corner of his eye, he saw an inky tumble of black hair. Harry was pushing his way through the crowd, curious to see what was happening.  
  
“Harry!” Draco cried, rushing towards him.   
  
He saw Harry’s head snap up at the sound of his own name at the exact moment he heard Neville bellow, “Sectumsempra!”  
  
When the curse hit him, it didn’t hurt all. The pain came later.   
  
The dark curse cut through his body like a knife through warm butter, slicing soft flesh and hard muscle alike. Draco didn’t feel anything besides the energy of the magic cracking like a whip against his chest. He heard screaming in the distance, but the cries were muted, as if he were hearing them from underwater. His vision spotted and then lost focus.  
  
He didn’t know if his body absorbed the initial shock of pain or if he just didn’t realize how much he should be hurting until he looked down and saw the blood spreading quickly across abdomen.   
  
Through the part in his robes he could see his shirt. Once white and crisply starched, it was now bright red and sticking to his stomach wetly.   
  
He pressed his hand against his belly. That was when the pain came. White hot and crippling, he doubled over underneath the weight of it. Clutching his gutted stomach, he reached out blindly with his other hand, desperately searching for something to hold him upright.  
  
He heard his name being shouted, closer this time. And then strong hands were on his shoulders, guiding him to the ground to lie on his back.   
  
Harry appeared above him, green eyes shining like beacons against the dulling grey that was seeping into the corners of his vision.   
  
“Draco? Can you hear me, Draco?”  
  
Draco tried to speak, to open his mouth and tell Harry that he could hear him. He had so many things he wanted to tell Harry. So many confessions he wanted to give, so many apologies he wanted to make. He wanted to beg for Harry’s forgiveness and promise to be the man that Harry thought he was.   
  
He had so many things to say, but he couldn’t find his voice. There was something wrong with his throat, he realized. He was having trouble drawing breath and every time he tried to speak, a terrible wheezing noise came out instead.   
  
He coughed and his mouth was filled with a warm, metallic taste. He could feel the blood pooling on his heavy tongue, dripping out of the corner of his mouth to slip down the side of his face.  
  
“Someone get a Healer!” Harry shouted above him.  
  
Draco felt a pressure on his stomach, but the sharp pain that had brought him to his knees was ebbing, flowing slowly away from him to make room for the warm, peaceful glow that was lapping at his sides like the gentle waves of the Black Lake.   
  
He was sinking, melting into the ground below him; his limbs were growing heavy, pulling him down.  
  
Down.  
  
Down.  
  
Down.  
  
“Draco! Stay with me! There’s a Healer coming!”   
  
The pressure on his stomach disappeared and then Harry’s hand was on his face, leaving behind wet trails of sticky blood as he slapped at Draco’s cheeks and yelled his name over and over again.  
  
Draco’s movements were clumsy and sluggish as he reached up, trying to find Harry even as his vision narrowed and that seductive sense of tranquility pulled at the edges of his consciousness. He felt his hand connect with something solid: the curve of a jaw. His fingers trailed over the stubble of a weekend morning’s skipped shave.   
  
“Harry,” he whispered, his voice garbled and sputtering as blood continued to slip from the corners of his mouth. The painless bliss that called out to him receded as he tried to speak.  
  
He wanted to stay, he had so much to tell Harry, but the pain was too much and the peace too great. He couldn’t walk away from the light. He couldn’t stay, he couldn’t fight. This was a battle he couldn’t win.  
  
There was only one rule in this game, she had said. Win or die.  
  
“Draco, I’ve got you. Just hold on. Please hold on, Draco. Someone’s coming. It will all be all right, I’ve got you.”  
  
It hurt to speak, but Draco had to tell him, had to let him know. But he didn’t have those particular words. He’d never learned how to say them.  
  
“Pocket,” Draco wheezed. His stomach clenched, sending bolts of pain shooting through him. His fingers curled around Harry’s jaw, his fingernails digging into flesh and bone as he rode out the debilitating stabs of pure agony that pierced his gut again and again.   
  
“Pocket, Harry,” he repeated, his teeth grit. “Read, Harry.”  
  
Harry nodded dumbly, his hands flying wildly as he dug through the layers of Draco’s robes, which were heavy with the weight of the blood they’d absorbed. He found a leather bound notebook and held it up in front of Draco’s face. “This? You want me to read this?”  
  
Draco gave a feeble nod. Now Harry would know, Harry would read and he would understand. Harry would know that Draco could have, would have, loved him.  
  
It was with that comforting thought that Draco relaxed and let the final swells of that peaceful tide crash over him, pulling him down into that murky tranquility of endless sleep.  
  


***

  
  
Harry climbed the stairs of Ravenclaw Tower, Draco’s leather-bound journal gripped tightly in his fist. Even an act as simple as walking seemed strange at the moment. He’d spent the past twenty-four hours in a stunned daze, too astonished by what he’d seen and read to allow the menial aspects of daily life to seem real.  
  
It had all happened too quickly, so unexpectedly. One minute he was distracting himself from his broken heart with a day of shopping, and the next he was cradling the blood-soaked body of his one-time lover against his chest.  
  
But he couldn’t let the cruel absurdity of life distract him just yet. There would be time for mourning, but not until he had done this. Now was a time for action, for retribution, for redemption. He had a plan and time was of the essence.   
  
He reached the top landing just in time to see a young girl with curly red hair and coke-bottle glasses opening the door. “Wait!” he yelled to her.  
  
She turned around and looked at him expectantly.  
  
“Can you do me a favor?” he asked. “Can you go inside and find Luna Lovegood? I need to speak to her.”  
  
The girl nodded and slipped through the heavy wooden door, allowing it to slam shut behind her. Harry leaned against the rounded stone wall and waited, growing anxious and agitated with each passing minute.   
  
After what felt like an eternity of waiting, a girl with large silver eyes and dirty blonde hair poked her head out through the crack in the door. “Hello?” she asked, her voice low and dreamy.   
  
Pushing off the wall, Harry rushed to her. “Are you Luna Lovegood? I’m Harry Potter.”  
  
“I know who you are,” she said, stepping out from behind the door “And yes, I am Luna. How can I help you?”  
  
“This might sound a bit strange,” he said, scratching the back of his head. “But I need a favor from you, kind of a big one. Your dad owns The Quibbler, right? I've got something I'd like him to publish.”  
  


***

  
  
Pansy smoothed her hair and gave her makeup a final check in the mirror: eyes lined, cheeks rosy, lips painted. Everything was in order. She smiled at her reflection, the final step in her well-practiced routine.  
  
The smile faded from her lips as she studied her reflection closely. There was something off; the smile hadn’t reached her eyes. She shook her head, cleared her mind, and tried again.   
  
Still, the dullness behind her eyes betrayed the artifice of her curling lips.   
  
With a frustrated growl, she tore her gaze away from the mirror and stalked out of the bathroom. It shouldn’t matter that she could see insincerity of her expression, all that mattered was that others couldn’t.   
  
It was understandable, she reasoned, that she was not in top form. It had only been a week since the death of the closest thing she’d ever had to a true friend.  
  
Pansy’s heart seized in her chest at the thought of Draco. She hadn’t expected Longbottom to play the part of the vigilante with quite so much gusto when she’d sent him after Draco. She’d expected a brawl, yes, maybe even a duel, but not certainly not a murder.   
  
She had simply wanted to remind Draco of her control, of the fact that she could have whomever she wanted underneath her thumb at anytime. But in the end, she’d learned the opposite lesson, and Draco’s life was the price of her education.  
  
Still, that was no reason to lose herself completely. She would mourn him publicly with well-timed tears and fond stories about their happy childhood together. She would excuse herself when people mentioned his name; she would pretend to dry her eyes with her handkerchief when she could not escape.  
  
She would mourn him outwardly in a way that was respectable. But the pain and guilt and self-loathing that ate away at her insides was hers and hers alone.   
  
No one needed to know that when the news of what had happened in Hogsmeade reached her in the dungeons, she’d ran to the seventh floor corridor and begged for a place where it was safe to cry, where no one would hear her screaming. They didn’t need to know that she’d smashed every piece of furniture in that stupid room, not with her magic, but with her bare hands.   
  
After three calming breaths and a mental recitation of the ingredients to Dreamless Sleep, Pansy was able to push away those errant thoughts of Draco and continue with her evening. The common room was nearly deserted as she passed through it, except for a few lower year students who weren’t allowed to attend the evening’s Halloween Ball.   
  
There were a few students lingering in the corridors and on the stairs as she made her way to the Great Hall, but they paid her no mind. They were huddled in small clusters, their heads bent low over what appeared to be a magazine. Perhaps Viktor Krum had finally agreed to do that spread in  _PlayWitch_ , she thought wryly.  
  
Outside of the heavy doors to the Great Hall, she paused and smoothed her dress robes down once more. She checked that her cuffs weren’t turned inside out and that her the fall of the fabric was just right. Assured that she was pulled together, she pushed open the heavy doors and entered.  
  
The long dining tables had been cleared from the room to make way for an expansive dance floor, but there were no students dancing. Music blared loudly through a Sonorus charm, but it wasn’t competing with the excited chatter and flitting laughter that usually accompanied these affairs.   
  
Almost all of the students were gathered together in small groups, much like the ones she had passed in the corridors. Pansy wondered what they could all be reading and why she hadn’t been given a copy.  
  
Before the question had properly settled in her mind, a girl Pansy recognized as a Seventh Year Hufflepuff, spotted her from across the hall and pointed a single, damning finger. “Her!” she shouted. “It was her!”  
  
All eyes in the Hall turned to her immediately.   
  
The Sonorus began to fade as jeers and insults were hurled from hundreds of lips, the tenor of their accusations growing in volume and fervor until they pressed against Pansy like a physical weight, knocking her back a step.   
  
Grasping blindly at the door behind her, she tried to find the handle without turning around. She felt pinned underneath the collective gaze of her peers, their eyes burning with loathing and revulsion.   
  
From the corner of the eye she saw a copy of the magazine that had caught the attention of the entire school lying on the floor. Her own face was smiling up at her from the front cover, emblazoned with the tawdry headline: “Sex, Lies, and Murder at Hogwarts.”  
  
The cover image was burned in her mind as she raced through the empty corridors, desperate to escape the taunting chorus of hisses that followed her.   
  
There was a boy hovering around the entrance to the Slytherin common room. He had dark, messy hair and round glasses that obscured his eyes. Pansy stopped short when she saw him. She was ready to turn in the other direction and bolt, to find sanctuary someplace else, but he had spotted her.  
  
“Parkinson,” he said coldly.  
  
No matter how desperate she was to flee, her feet would not let her. She felt rooted to the spot, watching in horror as Harry Potter stalked towards her.  
  
He grabbed her wrist, his fingers digging harshly into her skin. He shoved a rolled up copy of the magazine into her fist. She clutched it tightly, feeling the sharp edged paper cut her fingers.   
  
She tried to wrench herself free of his painful grip. She could feel the tears welling in her eyes, but Potter held on tight as he leaned in and whispered.  
  
“You lose.”  
 


End file.
